MANY  MANY  MOONS 


MANY  MANY  MOONS 

A  BOOK  OF  WILDERNESS  POEMS 

BY 

LEW  SARETT 


WITH   AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

CARL  SANDBURG 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


gfc  (fiuinn  Sc  gotten    Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW     JERSEY 


TO 

MY  WIFE 

MARGARET 

THIS  BOOK   IS  DEDICATED 


439 j 96 


PREFACE 

The  specific  words  and  phrases  which  the  American 
Indian  utters  in  song  and  ceremony  are  few  and  frag 
mentary.  In  their  original  forms  of  expression  the 
utterances  of  Indian  dance,  song,  and  ritual  are  often 
crude  and  inadequate.  Literal  translation,  therefore, 
will  rarely  reveal  the  emotional  and  ideational  content 
of  a  ceremony.  For  example,  the  only  words  uttered 
in  the  course  of  a  long  and  richly  meaningful  scalp- 
dance  song  may  be  the  following: 

"  I  am  dancing  in  the  sky, 
I  am  dancing  in  the  sky 
With  a  Sioux  scalp." 

The  few  fragmentary  phrases  may  be  repeated  over 
and  over  again,  interspersed  with  apparently  mean 
ingless  syllables  and  ejaculations.  The  meager  phrase 
in  a  medicine  song  may  be  slight  in  its  denotation; 
it  can  represent  merely  the  peaks  of  an  emotional 
flight,  or  it  can  merely  symbolize  a  great  situation. 
Yet  if  the  fragmentary  ideas  be  interpreted  against 
a  background  of  legend,  or  supplemented  by  the  ac 
companying  incidents  of  the  dance, — its  music,  pos 
tures,  gestures,  and  vocal  embellishments, — if  they  be 
ref  racteo1  through  the  prismatic  glass  of  Indian  imagi 
nation,  the  few  words  that  are  uttered  may  suggest 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

a  great  colorful  complex  of  ideas  and  emotions.  The 
poems  of  Indian  theme  in  Parts  I  and  III  of  this 
volume,  therefore,  are  in  no  sense  literal  translations 
of  original  utterances  of  aboriginal  song  and  council- 
talk  ;  they  are,  rather,  very  free,  broad  interpretations. 
I  have  endeavored  to  interpret  most  broadly  the  origi 
nal  Indian  motives  through  their  suggestive  connota 
tions, — in  the  light  of  Indian  symbolism  and  mys 
ticism,  of  the  mythology  and  superstition  involved, 
and  of  the  attendant  ceremonies. 

Although  I  have  been  very  free  in  my  interpreta 
tions,  I  have  endeavored  to  maintain  steadily  and 
accurately  the  consciousness  of  the  genuine  American 
Indian  of  today,  his  peculiar  mental  and  emotional 
slants.  I  have  sought,  moreover,  to  maintain  con 
sistently  the  point  of  view  of  the  modern  reservation 
type  of  red  man, — more  copper  or  bronze  than  red, — 
who  in  his  present  transition  from  the  primitive  wild 
life  to  the  new  civilization  offers  a  paradoxical  amal 
gam  or  mosaic  of  the  old  and  the  new,  the  ideal  and 
the  material,  the  majestic  and  the  grotesque. 

The  romantic  red  man  in  the  picturesque  setting 
of  war-dances  and  ambuscaded  prairie  schooners  has 
gone  the  way  of  the  buffalo,  the  flintlock,  and  the 
stone-ax.  With  him  has  gone  much  of  the  romantic 
beauty  of  the  wild  yesterdays;  the  old  glory  of  the 
lawless  Indian  frontier  has  grown  a  bit  faded  and 
tawdry.  Yet  in  the  life  and  the  aspirations  of  the 
red  man  of  today,  and  particularly  in  the  character 
of  the  more  remote,  primitive  Northern  woods  Indian, 
there  is  a  new,  strange,  often  bizarre  beauty  which, 


PREFACE 


IX 


because  of  the  economic  and  social  complexities  cre 
ated  by  modern  reservation  life,  is  infinitely  more 
colorful  and  kaleidoscopic  than  that  of  the  old  roman 
tic  days.  In  this  transitional  type  of  the  Original 
American  there  is  a  rugged  charm  distinctive  of  the 
New  World,  and  of  the  race  of  pioneers  that  struggled 
here  to  beat  back  the  wilderness  and  to  fling  out  the 
borders  of  a  new  civilization.  About  this  bronze  fig 
ure,  the  symbol  of  our  vanished  West  and  of  our 
beaten  borderlands,  hovers  a  wild  poetic  beauty  as 
peculiarly  American  in  fragrance  as  the  redolence 
of  burning  pine,  or  the  odor  of  a  cornfield  after  rain. 
Beneath  the  drab  surface  of  the  modern  transitional 
type  of  Indian  in  his  semi-civilized  setting  of  the 
reservation  there  is  comedy,  cosmic  tragedy,  and  a 
wealth  of  literary  materials  that  are  epic  in  sweep. 
Consider  the  pathos  of  his  desperate  struggle  of  three 
centuries  to  stem  the  tide  of  a  subtle,  irresistible  civili 
zation,  to  withstand  the  ravages  of  the  white  man's 
diseases,  to  beat  off  the  packs  of  astute  grafters  who 
were  ever  ready  to  pounce  upon  him  as  wolves  upon 
a  wounded  deer.  In  the  great  drama  enacted  in  the 
American  wilderness  these  bronze  stoics  have  played 
every  role, — hero  and  villain,  hunter  and  hunted,  vic 
tor  and  vanquished ;  yesterday  defiant,  imperious,  bat 
tling  victoriously  with  naked  hands  against  storm  and 
wind  and  snow  and  cyclone,  against  man  and  beast 
and  hunger  and  pestilence;  today  poverty-stricken, 
servile,  making  their  exit  in  the  West  and  the  North, 
a  handful  of  broken  people,  a  thin  line  of  bedraggled 
figures  in  the  twilight,  straggling  across  the  desert 


x  PREFACE 

with  muffled  footfall  into  the  Valley  of  Night  to  the 
ultimate  companionship  of  the  stars. 

In  much  of  the  seeming  cacophony  of  the  modern 
Indian's  music  there  is  lyric  poetry.  In  the  primitive 
dances  to  which  the  pagan  elder  folk  have  clung  so 
tenaciously,  and  in  which  today  the  Indian  sings  his 
soul  out  of  its  rags  back  for  a  moment  to  the  old 
glory  of  the  wild  days,  there  is  a  pungent,  elemental 
charm.  Rugged  dignity  and  power  mark  his  council 
oratory.  A  pagan  spiritual  beauty  glitters  in  all  the 
religious  rituals  that  express  his  cosmic  theory;  for 
his  pantheistic  conception  of  the  phenomena  of  nature 
is  sublime  in  its  personification  of  the  wilderness,  in 
its  humanization  of  earth  and  sky  and  water,  of  beast 
and  bird  and  reptile,  of  the  flash  of  the  lightning,  the 
rumble  of  thunder,  and  the  roar  of  the  big  winds.  In 
the  supernatural  world  created  by  his  imagination 
there  is  a  weird  mysticism;  for  the  Indian  walks 
through  life  ever  beckoned  by  unseen  hands,  ever 
communing  with  the  ghosts  of  the  unseen  spirit  of 
beast  and  devil  and  god. 

His  life  is  not,  however,  wholly  in  shadow;  it  has 
its  high  lights  of  comedy  and  humor.  There  is  humor 
in  his  naive  attempts  to  adapt  himself  to  the  white 
man's  mode  of  living  with  its  baffling  machines  and 
its  incomprehensible  customs;  sometimes  a  ludicrous 
incongruity  in  his  domestic  environment  with  its  ag 
glomeration  of  primitive  birch-basket  and  battered 
alarm  clock,  papoose  cradle  and  broken  sewing  ma 
chine, — the  latter  often  purchased  as  a  thing  of  orna 
ment  rather  than  of  utility, — quaint  stone  pestle  and 


PREFACE  xi 

mortar  and  the  badge  of  affluence,  that  sine  qua  non 
of  Indian  aristocracy,  the  cheap  talking  machine  eter 
nally  playing  its  one  record.  There  is  unconscious 
humor,  and  often  subtle  wit,  in  much  of  his  talk,  and 
in  his  modern  dialect,  a  hybrid  language  in  which  the 
simple  dignity  of  the  old  poetic  diction  is  now  shot 
through  with  the  mixed  idioms,  the  crudities,  and  the 
twisted  phrases  of  borderland  slang  and  of  French- 
Canadian  patois.  The  comedy  in  his  character, — 
largely  the  humor  of  grotesqueness,  inconsistency,  and 
paradox, — is  best  suggested  perhaps  by  the  incongrui 
ties  of  the  costume  which  he  often  wears  at  some 
idealistic  old  ceremonial  dance;  a  nondescript  outfit 
composed  of  buckskin  moccasins  and  conspicuous 
white  man's  underwear,  beaded  medicine  bag  and 
shoddy  trousers,  eagle  feathers  and  a  battered  derby 
hat. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  this  more  modern  type  of  Indian, 
— and  particularly  of  the  more  remote  Northern  woods 
Indian  of  Algonquian  stock, — with  his  peculiar  an 
achronistic  combination  of  the  primitive  and  the  mod 
ern,  the  tragic  and  the  comic,  the  ideal  and  the  real, 
the  romantic  and  the  drab,  the  spiritual  and  the 
material, — it  is  the  spirit  of  this  transitional  type  of 
red  man  which  I  wish  to  catch  in  Part  I  and  Part 
III  of  this  volume.  I  desire,  furthermore,  not  only 
to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  woods  Indian,  but  also, 
through  the  nature  poems  in  Part  II,  to  capture  some 
thing  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  Indian's  environment, 
of  his  setting  of  the  Northern  wilderness.  If,  there 
fore,  the  poems  in  this  book  convey  in  some  degree 


xii  PREFACE 

the  wild  beauty  of  the  North,  and  of  its  wilderness 
folk,  a  beauty  so  inadequately  expressed  by  the  printed 
word,  I  shall  be  most  happy.  If  they  do  not  thus 
succeed — it  was  Walter  Savage  Landor — was  it  not? 
— who  said,  "  There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none 
hear  beside  the  singer." 

Although  a  few  of  the  poems  in  Parts  I  and  III 
presuppose  on  the  part  of  the  reader  some  knowledge 
of  the  American  Indian,  most  of  them  will  readily 
yield  their  meaning  without  the  aid  of  supplementary 
notes.  I  have  incorporated  in  each  poem  most  of 
the  special  information  concerning  Indian  folk-lore 
of  which  the  casual  reader  may  not  be  informed. 
Likewise,  the  correct  pronunciation  of  the  various 
Chippewa  words  which  are  used  is  made  clear  by  the 
accents  and  the  phonetic  spelling;  and  their  meanings 
may  be  readily  grasped  from  their  context.  However, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  reader  who  may  be  interested 
in  further  details  concerning  the  ceremonials  and 
legends  that  lie  at  the  foundation  of  certain  of  the 
poems,  I  have  added  a  brief  section  of  expository 
comments  in  the  Appendix,  beginning  on  page  71. 
I  suggest  that  the  reader  glance  at  these  supplementary 
notes  before  reading  the  poems  in  Part  I  and  Part  III 
upon  which  they  bear. 

I  wish  to  take  this  opportunity  to  express  my  deep 
gratitude  to  Miss  Harriet  Monroe,  the  editor  of 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  to  Mr.  Carl  Sandburg, 
and  to  Professor  Stuart  P.  Sherman  of  the  University 
of  Illinois  for  their  encouragement  and  their  helpful 
suggestions,  and  to  many  other  friends  for  valuable 
criticisms.  LEW  SARETT. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE vii 

INTRODUCTION.     By  Carl  Sandburg       .  .    xv 

PART  I 
FLYING  MOCCASINS 

THE  BLUE  DUCK 3 

CHIPPEWA  FLUTE  SONG  ...  .8 

THE  SQUAW-DANCE n 

BEAT  AGAINST  ME  No  LONGER       .       .       .       .16 

THE  CONJURER 18 

RED-ROCK,  THE  MOOSE-HUNTER  ....  22 
RAIN  SONG:  MOTIVE  I  .  ^  .  .  .  .  25 
RAIN  SONG:  MOTIVE  II  .  ....  26 
RAIN  SONG:  MOTIVE  III 28 

PART  II 
LONE  FIRES 

THE  LOON .  33 

GOD  Is  AT  THE  ANVIL       .                                     .  34 

PHILOSOPHIC  FROGS 35 

THE  WOLF  CRY  .  ...  .37 

THE  CABIN  ON  THE  CLIFF 38 

THE  FOG-BELL    ...  .39 

THE  GRANITE  MOUNTAIN 4° 

DAKOTAH 42 

THE  WHITE-THROAT 43 

REFUGE 44 

SWAMP-OWL 45 

OF  THESE  FOUR  THINGS  I  CANNOT  WRITE  .       .  46 

THE  GREAT  DIVIDE   ....              .       .  48 

xiii 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PART  III 

CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 
A  Group  of  Indian  Council  Talks 

PACK 

THE  WINDS  OF  FIFTY  WINTERS  .  .  .  .51 
CHIEF  BEAR'S-HEART  "  MAKES  TALK  "  .  .  55 
LITTLE-CARIBOU  MAKES  "  BIG  TALK  "  .  .  .  59 

WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS 62 

APPENDIX 1 


INTRODUCTION 

Books  say  Yes  to  life.  Or  they  say  No.  "  Many 
Many  Moons  "  says  Yes. 

Picking  classics  in  contemporary  books  is  like  pick 
ing  winners  in  baseball  or  durable  forms  of  govern 
ment  among  nations.  One  man's  guess  is  as  good  as 
another's. 

We  might  say,  "Herewith  is  entered  Lew  Sarett 
and  *  Many  Many  Moons '  as  a  runner  for  a  place 
among  the  classics."  And  it  would  be  only  a  guess. 

However,  there  is  nothing  in  the  stipulations  of 
the  Espionage  Act  nor  in  the  Code  of  Chesterfield 
nor  in  the  Marquis  of  Queensbury  rules,  that  stops  us 
from  asking: 

"Why  not  have  the  loam  and  the  lingo,  the  sand 
and  the  syllables  of  North  America  in  the  books  of 
North  America?" 

And  so  Sarett  .  .  .  with  tall  timber,  freshwaters, 
blue  ducks,  and  a  loon  in  him.  The  loon,  a  poet's 
bird  for  sure,  is  here.  Unless  there  is  a  loon  cry 
in  a  book  the  poetry  is  gone  out  of  it.  We  have  too 
many  orderly,  respectable,  synthesized  poets  in  the 
United  States  and  in  England.  In  their  orientation 
with  the  library  canary  fed  from  delicatessen  tins, 
they  are  strangers  to  the  loon  that  calls  off  its  long 
night  cry  in  tall  timber  up  among  the  beginnings  of 
the  Mississippi. 

XV 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

Sarett  has  equipment.  Years  a  forest  ranger  and 
a  woodsman,  other  years  a  wilderness  guide,  com 
panion  of  red  and  white  men  as  an  outrider  of  civili 
zation,  university  instructor,  headline  performer  at 
western  Chautauquas,  magazine  writer,  he  brings  wis 
dom  of  things  silent  and  things  garrulous  to  his  book. 
Old  men  with  strong  heads  and  shrewd  slow  tongues, 
young  men  with  tough  feet,  the  wishing  song  of  mate 
for  mate — they  are  here.  The  loam  and  the  lingo, 
the  sand  and  the  syllables  of  North  America  are  here. 
"  Many  Many  Moons  "  says  Yes. 

CARL  SANDBURG. 


NOTE  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Of  the  poems  in  Part  I  and  Part  III  of  this  book, 
many  were  first  published  in  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse.  The  author  is  indebted  to  the  editors  for 
permission  to  include  them  in  this  .volume.  For  the 
privilege  of  reprinting  other  copyrighted  poems  in  this 
book  he  wishes  to  thank  the  editors  of  the  following: 
Reedy's  Mirror;  The  Outing  Magazine;  The  Stratford 
Journal;  The  Argosy  Magazine;  Others;  Outdoor 
Life;  Birds  and  Nature  Magazine;  the  Nature-Study 
Review;  American  Forestry;  Outer's  Book  and  Recre 
ation;  The  Farm  Journal;  The  Pagan;  The  Boston 
Transcript. 

L.  S. 


PART  I 
FLYING  MOCCASINS 


THE  BLUE  DUCK* 
Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!  To  be  read 

TTJ  i     TT;  i     TT;  i     TT;  i  With  O  Vigorous 

lilt  emphasising 
Hee-ya!    H6i-ya!  the  drumbeats. 

Hee-ya !    H6i-ya ! 

Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,  Ma-ni-do, 

The  hunter-moon  is  chipping, 

Chipping  at  his  flints, 

At  his  dripping  bloody  flints ; 

He  is  rising  for  the  hunt, 

And  his  face  is  red  with  blood 

From  the  spears  of  many  spruces, 

And  his  blood  is  on  the  leaves 

That  flutter  down. 

The  Winter-Maker,  White  Bee-boan, 

Is  walking  in  the  sky, 

And  his  windy  blanket 

Rustles  in  the  trees. 

He  is  blazing  out  the  trail 

Through  the  fields  of  nodding  rice 

For  the  swift  and  whistling  wings 

Of  his  She-she-be, 

For  the  worn  and  weary  wings 

*  See  Appendix,  page  71,  for  supplementary  comments  con 
cerning  "The  Blue  Duck"  and  other  poems  in  this  group, 
Part  I. 

3 


4 


FLYING  MOCCASINS 


Of  many  duck--  - 

Ho  !    Plenty  duck  !    Plenty  duck  ! 

Ho!    Plenty,  plenty  duck  ! 

Hi!    Hi!  More  slowly 

Hi  ,  and  quietly, 


verging  on  a 
Hi!    Hi!  chant. 

Hi!    Hi! 

Hoy-eeeeeee  !    Ya  ! 

Hoy-eeeeeee  !   Ya  ! 

Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,  Ma-ni-do, 

The  seasons  have  been  barren. 

In  the  Moon-of  -Sugar-Making, 

And  the  Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass, 

From  the  blighted  berry  patches 

And  the  maple-sugar  bush, 

The  hands  of  all  my  children 

Came  home  empty,  came  home  clean. 

The  big  rain  of  Nee-bin,  the  Summer-Maker, 

Washed  away  the  many  little  partridge. 

And  good  Ad-ik-kum-aig,  sweet  whitefish, 

Went  sulking  all  the  summer-moons, 

Hiding  in  the  deepest  waters, 

Silver  belly  in  the  mud, 

And  he  would  not  walk  into  my  nets  !    Ugh  ! 

Thus  the  skin-sacks  and  the  mo-kuks 

Hang  within  my  weeg-a-wam  empty. 

Soon  the  winter  moon  will  come, 
Slipping  through  the  silent  timber, 
Walking  on  the  silent  snow, 


THE  BLUE  DUCK 


Stalking  on  the  frozen  lake. 

Lean-bellied, 

Squatting  with  his  rump  upon  the  ice, 

The  phantom  wolf  will  fling 

His  wailings  to  the  stars. 

Then  Ween-di-go,  the  Devil-Spirit, 

Whining  through  the  lodge-poles, 

Will  clutch  and  shake  my  teepee, 

Calling, 

Calling, 

Calling  as  he  sifts  into  my  lodge; 

And  ghostly  little  shadow-arms 

Will  float  out  through 

The  smoke-hole  in  the  night — 

Leaping,  tossing  shadow-arms, 

Little  arms  of  little  children, 

Hungry  hands  of  shadow-arms, 

Clutching, 

Clutching, 

Clutching  at  the  breast  that  is  not  there.  .  . 

Shadow-arms  and  shadow  breasts.   .    . 

Twisting, 

Twisting, 

Twisting  in  and  twisting  out 

On  the  ghastly  clouds  of  smoke.  .    .   . 

Riding  on  the  whistling  wind.  .    .    . 

Riding  on  the  whistling  wind 

Riding  on  the  whistling  wind , 

Starward!  .   .   . 

Blow,  blow,  blow  Kee-way-din,  North  Wind, 

Warm  and  gentle  on  my  children, 


To  be  chanted 
from  this  point 
on — slower  in 
rate — higher 
and   higher  in 
pitch — mount 
ing  to  melan 
choly  wailing. 


A  sustained 
wailing  chant, 
gathering  power 
steadily. 


6  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Cold  and  swift  upon  the  wild  She-she-be, 
Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo  .   .   .  Plenty  duck  .   .   . 
Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo  .  .  .  Plenty  duck.  .  .  . 

Hi !     Hi !    Hi !     Hi !  Faster-with  a 

Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi! 

Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,  Ma-ni-do, 

Blow  on  Ah-bi-too-bi  many  wings; 

Wings  of  teal  and  wings  of  mallard, 

Wings  of  green  and  blue. 

My  little  lake  lies  waiting, 

Singing  for  her  blustery  lover; 

Dancing  on  the  golden-stranded  shore 

With  many  little  moccasins, 

Pretty  little  moccafins, 

Beaded  with  her  silver  sands, 

And  with  her  golden  pebbles. 

And  upon  her  gentle  bosom 

Lies  Mah-no-min,  sweetest  wild-rice, 

Green  and  yellow, 

Rustling  blade  and  rippling  blossom — 

Hi-yee !    Hi-yee !    Blow  on  Ah-bi-too-bi  plenty  duck ! 

Ho !     Plenty,  plenty  duck  ! 

Ho!     Plenty  duck,  plenty  duck! 

Ho!     Ho! 

Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi! 
Hee-ya!     H6i-ya!     Hee-ya!     H6i-ya! 
Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,  Ma-ni-do, 
I  place  this  pretty  duck  upon  your  hand; 
Upon  its  sunny  palm  and  in  its  windy  fingers. 


THE  BLUE  DUCK 


Hi-yeee !    Blue  and  beautiful 

Is  he,  beautifully  blue! 

Carved  from  sleeping  cedar 

When  the  stars  like  silver  fishes 

Were  a-quiver  in  the  rivers  of  the  sky ; 

Carved  from  dripping  cedar 

When  the  Koo-koo-koo  dashed  hooting 

At  the  furtive  feet 

That  rustle  in  the  leaves — 

Hi!    And  seasoned  many  moons,  many  moons, 

Ho!    Seasoned  many,  many,  many  sleeps! 

Hi-yeee!    Blue  and  beautiful 

Is  he,  beautifully  blue! 

Though  his  throat  is  choked  with  wood, 

And  he  honks  not  on  his  pole, 

And  his  wings  are  weak  with  hunger, 

Yet  his  heart  is  plenty  good. 

Hi-yee!    His  heart  is  plenty  good! 

Hi-yee!     Plenty  good,  plenty  good! 

Hi-yee!    Hi-yee!    Hi-yee!    His  heart  is  good! 


Faster,  louder, 
with  a  vigorous 
lilting   beat — 
with  abandon. 


My  heart  like  his  is  good! 
Ugh!     My  tongue  talks  straight! 


Brokenly  and 
brusquely. 


Ho! 


CHIPPEWA  FLUTE  SONG 

To  be  chanted  softly  and  monotonously  in  a  high 
pitch,  with  a  downward  inflection  at  the  end  of  every 
sentence  and  at  other  places  where  the  voice  naturally 
falls. 

Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! 
My  little  Pigeon- Woman, 

For  you  alone  as  I  float  in  my  little  birch  canoe  in  the 
purple  twilight, 

I  am  singing,  I  am  calling 

on  my  little  cedar  lute  tenderly. 
For  you  alone,  for  you  alone  I  am  playing 

on  my  little  yellow  flute  mellowly. 
And   though   the  singing  of   my  throat  is   like  the 
grumping  of  the  frog 

at  night  among  the  water-lilies, 

yet  the  notes  from  my  cedar  Bee-bee-gwun 

are  like  silver  bubbles  in  the  moonlight. 
Therefore  why  do  you  hide  away  from  me  like  the 
timid  little  fawn 

that  peers  tremblingly  at  me 

from  yonder  bending  willows, 
My  little  Pigeon-Woman, 
My  Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 

8 


CHIPPEWA  FLUTE  SONG  9 

Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! 

From  the  clouds  of  purple  twilight  on  yonder  shore 

the  wailing  loon  is  calling,  calling, 

calling  for  his  woman  drearily. 
And  I  am  also  calling 

on  my  little  yellow  flute  wearily. 
In  the  dewy  glade  of  yonder  valley 

the  whip-poor-will  is  crying  for  his  mate; 
In  the  somber  lonely  shadows  of  the  timber 

the  melancholy  owl  is  also  calling. 
But  the  owl  and  the  whip-poor-will 

do  not  hear  an  answer 

to  their  many,  many  callings — 
Nor  do  I  hear  an  answer  to  my  melody. 
The  meadow-lark  is  fluting  his  golden  song; 

and  from  the  lilied  meadows 

other  golden  notes  come  floating  back  to  him 

like  little  golden  bells. 

And   though   the   meadow-lark   does   not   sing  more 
tenderly 

than  my  little  yellow  flute, 

you  do  not  answer  my  callings, 
My  little  Pigeon- Woman, 
My  Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 


Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! 

And  now  the  purple  wings  of  the  night 
are  softly  folded  down 
upon  my  sleeping  little  lake, 
and  the  sighing  silver  balsams. 


io  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

The  cooing  wood-dove  has  slipped  her  sleepy  head 

beneath  her  downy  wings ; 

and  the  hermit-thrush 

with  his  running-water  notes 

will  pipe  his  song  no  longer. 
The  eyes  of  the  many  little  stars  are  peering  down 

upon  me  from  the  sky  steadily; 
And  the  wan  and  sickly  moon  is  smiling  yellowly  at 

me — 
I  do  not  like  the  many  little  peering  eyes, 

I  do  not  like  the  smiling  yellow  moon; 

I  love  the  sun  that  dances  down  the  sky 

with  a  swirl  of  scarlet  robes, 

her  head  flung  back  over  her  shoulder, 

a  taunting  smile  on  her  vermilion  face.  .   .  . 
And  now  the  flutings  of  my  little  Bee-bee-gwun  avail 

me  no  longer; 

For  you  have  flown  away  from  me,  you  have  flown 
away  from  me 

like  the  sun  that  slipped  down  behind  the  willows 

trailing  her  purple  veils  behind  her 

on  the  shimmering  waters  of  my  lake 

and  over  the  edge  of  the  world. 
But  tomorrow  the  sun  will  come  back  to  me, 

the  sun  will  come  back  tomorrow, 
My  little  Pigeon- Woman, 
My  Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 


THE  SQUAW-DANCE 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum. 
Hoy-eeeeeee-yah !     Hoy-eeeeeee-yah ! 
Shuffle  to  the  left,  shuffle  to  the  left, 
Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left. 
Fat  squaws,  lean  squaws,  gliding  in  a  row, 
Grunting,  wheezing,  laughing  as  they  go; 
Bouncing  up  with  a  scuffle  and  a  twirl,       To  be  rcad 
Flouncing  petticoat  and  hair  in  a  whirl.       rapidly  with 
Rheumatic  hags  of  gristle  and  brawn,       l^^paic 
Rolling  in  like  a  ponderous  billow;  dance  rhythm. 

Fair  squaws  lithe  as  the  leaping  fawn, — 
Swaying  with  the  wind  and  bending  with  the  willow; 
Bouncing  buttock  and  shriveled  shank, 
Scuffling  to  the  drumbeat,  rank  on  rank; 
Stolid  eye  and  laughing  lip, 
Buxom  bosom  and  jiggling  hip, 
Weaving  in  and  weaving  out, 
Hi !    Hi !    Hi !  with  a  laugh  and  a  shout, 
To  the  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum; 
And  a  shuffle  to  the  left,  a  shuffle  to  the  left, 
A  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left,— 
Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

ii 


12  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Medicine  men  on  the  medicine  drum, 

Beating  out  the  rhythm  with  a  steady  thrum. 

Medicine  gourd  with  its  rattle,  rattle,  rattle, 

Flinging  wild  with  the  call  of  battle. 

Beaded  drummers  squatting  in  the  ring 

Leap  to  its  challenge  with  a  crouch  and  a  spring ; 

Weathered  old  bucks  that  grunt  and  wheeze 

As  they  jangle  bells  on  their  wrists  and  their  knees, — 

Shining  new  and  olden  bells, 

Silver,  copper,  golden  bells, 

Cow-bells,  toy  bells,  ringing  sleigh-bells, 

Beaded  dance  bells,  "  give-away  "  bells, 

Jingling,  jangling,  jingling  bells, 

Set-the-toes-atingling  bells, 

To  the  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum; 

And  a  shuffle  to  the  left,  a  shuffle  to  the  left, 

A  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left,— • 

Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

Old  bucks  stamping  heel  and  toe, 
Ugh!  as  they  snort  and  they  cackle  and  they  crow, — 
Yowling  like  the  lynx  that  crouches  nigh, 
Howling  like  the  wolf  at  the  prairie  sky; 
Growling  and  grunting  as  they  shift  and  they  tramp, 
Stalking,  crouching, — with  a  stamp,  stamp,  stamp, — 
Sleek  limbs,  lithe  limbs,  strong  and  clean  limbs, 
Withered  limbs,  bowed  limbs,  long  and  lean  limbs; 
Flat  feet,  bare  feet,  dancing  feet, 
Buckskin-moccasined  prancing  feet, 
Eager  child- feet,  scuffling  feet, 


THE  SQUAW-DANCE  13 

Feet,  feet,  feet,  feet,  shuffling  feet! 

Hi !    Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum ; 

Shuffle  to  the  left,  shuffle  to  the  left, 

Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left,— 

Hi!     Hi!     Hi!    Hi!     Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

KEE-WAY-DIN-O-KWAY,     THE     "  NORTH-WIND-WOMAN," 
SINGS  I 

"  I  have  a  pretty  present  for  Mah-een-gans, 

For  '  Little- Wolf  '  I  have  a  pretty  medicine  bag. 

Broidered  upon  it  are  many  little  beads 

In  many  pretty  patterns  of  wild  lilies, — 

Yellow  beads  and  beads  of  the  color  of  the  cornflower. 

Through  the  many  winter  moons 

T  t  t        j          ,«•     .   i  r  i  Dance  ceases. 

I  labored  on  this  token  of  love;  JQ  ^e  chanted. 

In  this  gaily  patterned  medicine  bag 

I  left  my  weary  eyes  and  my  worn  fingers. 

Now  I  wish  '  the  Wolf  '  to  dance  with  me  in  the  ring. 

Hi !    Beat,  beat  upon  the  drums,  old  medicine  men ! 

Dance !    Dance  in  the  ring,  my  people,  and  sing !  " 

(Ho!     Ho!   .    .    .   Hi-yah!     Hi-yah!) 

TT,  ,.  ,  TT,  ,*_ ,       With  a  lilt  and 

Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yah !  Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yah !      dance 

Hi!     Hi!     Hi!     Hi!     Hoy-eeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum, 
As  a  bouncing  breast  and  a  lean  long  thigh, 
Caper  to  the  ring  with  a  whoop  and  a  cry, 


14  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

And  shuffle  to  the  left,  shuffle  to  the  left, 
Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left,— 
Hi!     Hi!     Hi!     Hi!     Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

MAH-EEN-GANS,  THE  "  LITTLE- WOLF,"   SINGS  : 

"  I  have  a  present  for  the  '  Wind- Woman/ 

A  present  equal  in  value  to  her  medicine  bag. 

Ho!    A  pretty  present,  a  mi-gis  chain        Dance  ceases— 

Of  many  little  mi-gis  shells,— 

As  beautiful  as  the  *  North- Wind- Woman/ 

My  chain  of  shells  will  shimmer  on  her  breast 

As  the  little  silver  brooks  that  tinkle 

Down  the  moonlit  bosom  of  yonder  mountain. 

Now  I  wish  the  woman  to  dance  with  me  in  the  ring. 

Hi !    Beat,  beat  upon  the  drums,  old  medicine  men ! 

Dance !    Dance  in  the  ring,  my  people,  and  sing !  " 

Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah !    Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  tom-tom, 
Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat,  beat  upon  the  drum. 
Medicine  gourd  with  its  rattle,  rattle,  rattle, 
Ringing  wild  with  the  call  of  battle.  To  be  read 

Rheumatic  hags  of  gristle  and  brawn,        Jj£*  ffl$5T* 
Rolling  in  like  a  ponderous  billow ;  dance  rhythm, 

Fair  squaws  lithe  as  the  leaping  fawn,-     g3j£* 
Swaying  with  the  wind  and  bending  with  the  willow. 
Bouncing  buttock  and  shriveled  shank, 
Scuffling  to  the  drumbeat,  rank  on  rank. 
Old  bucks  stamping  heel  and  toe, 
Ugh !  as  they  snort  and  they  cackle  and  they  crow, — 


THE  SQUAW-DANCE  15 

Sleek  limbs,  lithe  limbs,  strong  and  clean  limbs, 

Withered  limbs,  bowed  limbs,  long  and  lean  limbs ; 

Flat  feet,  bare  feet,  dancing  feet, 

Buckskin-moccasined  prancing  feet; 

Shuffle  to  the  left,  shuffle  to  the  left, 

Shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  to  the  left,  to  the  left; 

With  a  crouch  and  a  spring  and  a  grunt  and  a  wheeze, 

And  a  clanging  of  bells  at  the  wrists  and  the  knees, — 

Shining  new  and  olden  bells, 

Silver,  copper,  golden  bells — 

Feet,  feet,  feet,  feet,  scuffling  feet! 

To  the  drumbeat,  drumbeat,  beat,  beat,  beat — 

Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    Hi! 

Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah! 


BEAT  AGAINST  ME  NO  LONGER 

Ai-yee!     My  Yellow-Bird-Woman, 
My  ne-ne-moosh,  ai-yee!  my  Loved-One, 
Be  not  afraid  of  my  eyes! 
Beat  against  me  no  longer! 
Come!    Come  with  a  yielding  of  limbs! 
Ai-yee!    Woman,  woman, 
Trembling  there  in  the  teepee 
Like  the  doe  in  the  season  of  mating, 
Why  foolishly  fearest  thou  me? 
Cast  the  strange  doubts  from  thy  bosom ! 
Be  not  afraid  of  my  eyes ! 
Be  not  as  the  flat-breasted  squaw-sich 
Who  feels  the  first  womanly  yearnings 
And  hides,  by  the  law  of  our  people, 
Alone  three  sleeps  in  the  forest; 
Be  not  as  that  brooding  young  maiden 
Who  wanders  forlorn  in  the  cedars, 
And  slumbers  with  troubled  dreams, 
To  awaken  suddenly,  fearing 
The  hot  throbbing  blood  in  her  bosom, 
The  strange  eager  life  in  her  limbs. 
Ai-yee!    Foolish  one,  woman, 
Cast  the  strange  fears  from  thy  heart! 
Wash  the  red  shame  from  thy  face! 
Be  not  afraid  of  my  glances! 
16 


BEAT  AGAINST  ME  NO  LONGER      17 

Be  as  the  young  silver  birch 

In  the  Moon-of-the-Green-Growing-Flowers — 

Who  sings  with  the  thrill  of  the  sap 

As  it  leaps  to  the  south  wind's  caresses ; 

Who  yields  her  rain-swollen  buds 

To  the  kiss  of  the  sun  with  glad  dancing. 

Be  as  the  cool  tranquil  moon 

Who  flings  off  her  silver-blue  blanket 

To  bare  her  white  breast  to  the  pine; 

Who  walks  through  the  many-eyed  night 

In  her  gleaming  white  nudeness 

With  proud  eyes  that  will  not  look  down. 

Be  as  the  sun  in  her  glory, 

Who  dances  across  the  blue  day, 

And  flings  her  red  soul,  fierce-burning, 

Into  the  arms  of  the  twilight. 

Ai-yee!    Foolish  one,  woman, 

Be  as  the  sun  and  the  moon! 

Cast  the  strange  doubts  from  thy  bosom! 

Wash  the  red  shame  from  thy  face! 

Thou  art  a  woman,  a  woman! 

Beat  against  me  no  longer! 

Be  not  afraid  of  my  eyes! 


THE  CONJURER 

Come  ye,  spirits  three!  To  be  chanted. 

Out  of  the  East,  out  of  the  West,  out  of  the  North ! 

Rise  ye,  ma-ni-do,  from  your  weeg-a-wams 

In  the  corners  of  the  earth ! 

Blow,  blow,  blow  thy  raging  tempests 

Through  the  ranks  of  whining  pine! 

Come  ye!     Come  ye  to  my  chee-sah-kan 

Riding  on  thy  crazy-running  winds. 

Hear !    Hear  my  potent  chantings ! 

Bestow  me  the  strength  to  work  my  conjurings! 

Hi !    Take  ye  my  good  medicine, 

This  precious  skin  of  the  jumping-rat 

Killed  in  the  hour  when  death, 

When  purple  death  walked  into  my  lodge, — 

And  three  moons,  three  moons  dried 

On  the  grave  of  my  youngest  son. 

Hi!    Hear  me!    Hear  me,  ma-ni-do! 

Come  ye,  spirits  three! 

Out  of  the  East,  out  of  the  West,  out  of  the  North ! 

Hi!    Blow,  blow,  blow  thy  whirling  winds! 

Sway  my  wigwam,  sway  it 

With  the  breathings  of  the  cyclone! 

Hi!    Bend  its  birchen  poles 

18 


THE  CONJURER  19 

Like  the  reeds  in  yonder  bay! 
Hi!     Clutch  my  teepee,  bend  it 
Till  its  peak  shall  scrape  the  ground! 
Hear  me!    Hear  me,  ma-ni-do!  .    .   . 

•  •  •  •  • 

How!     How!  Brokenly,  con- 

Behold!  my  friends,  it  bends  IT""?'<? 

Like  a  lily  in  the  storm!  the  audience. 

Come  ye,  spirits  three!  To  be  chanted. 

Out  of  the  East,  out  of  the  West,  out  of  the  North ! 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  send  into  my  lodge 

The  lean  spirit  of  a  lean  coyote — 

Of  the  dying  prairie  wolf  whose  whimperings 

We  followed  many  sleeps  across  the  desert. 

Make  him,  ma-ni-do,  fling  up  again 

His  last  long  mournful  wailings 

When  thirst  and  hunger  clutched 

His  withered  aching  throat — 

That  the  old  men  of  my  tribe  may  hear 

Again  his  ghostly  callings  as  of  old. 

Hear  me !    Hear  me,  ma-ni-do !  .  .   . 

How  !     How !  Conversa- 

TT    i     T<I  •  tionally  in  an 

Ho!    There  is  a  power  "aside." 

In  my  precious  ratskin! 

Come  ye,  spirits  three !  To  be  chanted. 

Out  of  the  East,  out  of  the  West,  out  of  the  North ! 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind  send  into  this  lodge 
The  spirit  of  Sings-in-the-Hills 


20  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Who  walked  to  his  death  in  his  birch  canoe 
Over  the  falls  of  the  Cut-Foot  Waters. 
Blow  his  spirit  into  my  lodge, 
That  his  aged  father  who  sits  without 
May  hear  his  voice  again. 
Hear  me!    Hear  me,  ma-ni-do! 
Make  his  ghost  to  talk  from  my  lodge 
That  the  people  who  watch  my  juggling 
May  know  his  voice  again.  .   .   . 

How !    How  !  Conver- 

Hear,  my  people?  sationally. 

My  medicine-skin  is  strong  with  power! 

Hear  ye,  spirits  three !  To  be  chanted. 

Go  ye  back  to  thy  weeg-a-wams 

In  the  corners  of  the  earth! 

Into  the  East,  into  the  West,  into  the  North! 

Leash  again  the  wolves  of  the  wind.  .   .  . 

To  thee,  O  Ma-ni-do  of  the  East, 

This  handful  of  burning  balsam 

Which  I  fling  on  the  dying  wind; 

To  thee,  O  Ma-ni-do  of  the  West, 

This  handful  of  yellow  medicine, 

Powder  of  precious  clays; 

To  thee,  O  Ma-ni-do  of  the  North, 

This  red-willow  twig  whereon  I  have  rubbed 

My  potent  medicine  ratskin. 

Go  ye  back,  ye  ma-ni-do, 

To  the  corners  of  the  earth! 

Hah-eeee-yooooooooooo ! 


THE  CONJURER  21 

How!    How! 

Enter  ye  the  teepee,  my  friends! 

Unbind  ye  the  basswood  cords  from  my  body! 

I  am  done ! 

How!    Howl 


RED-ROCK,  THE  MOOSE-HUNTER 

Bronze  in  the  rose-dusted  twilight, 
A  statue  of  bronze,  arms  uplifted, 
He  stands  ankle-deep  in  the  lilies 
As  rigidly  fixed  and  as  silent 
As  a  red  granite  butte  on  the  prairie, 
As  still  as  the  dusk  in  the  foot-hills — 
"  Ugh !    Red-Rock,  big  hunter-of-moose ! 
Red-Rock,  him  fool-um  old  bull! 
•Red-Rock,  big  moose-killer !— Ugh !  " 
Bronze  in  the  tranquil  sunset, 
Statuesque  bronze  in  the  willows. 

A  sudden  rush  through  the  lilies; 

A  splashing  of  flashing  limbs, 

Shattering  his  mirror  of  silver, — 

Juggling  his  gold-glinted  rainbows, 

And  flinging  them  into  the  winds; 

A  sudden  swoop  through  the  waters, 

A  sudden  scoop  of  the  hands, — 

And  bronze  in  the  copper  twilight, 

With  arms  uplifted  he  stands, 

Statuesque  bronze  in  the  lilies — 

"  Red-Rock,  big  caller-of-moose  !-— Ugh !  " 

Dripping,  dripping,  dripping 
Blue-shimmering  drops  through  his  fingers; 
22 


RED-ROCK,  THE  MOOSE-HUNTER     23 

Dripping,  dripping,  dripping 

Thin  tinkling  streams  from  his  palms; 

Plashing,  plashing,  plashing 

Cupped  handfuls  of  silvery  waters 

Splashing  among  the  lilies, — 

Black  bronze  in  the  purple  twilight, 

Statuesque  bronze  in  the  night — 

"  Red-Rock !    Big  hunter-of-moose !— Ugh !  " 

A  long  low  call  from  the  valley; 
A  bellow,  an  echoing  bugle 
Mellow  and  deep  with  the  passion 
Of  lone  longing  male  for  his  mate: 
"Hark!     Hark!  sweet  One-in-the-Lilies ! 
Ho!  my  Splashing-One !     Ho! 
I  come! — with  my  limbs  aquiver! 
I  come ! — with  a  straining  of  flanks !  " 

Beat-beating,  beat-beating,  beat-beating, 

Long-loping  feet  in  the  forest ; 

A  clashing  of  horn  in  the  timber, 

A  crashing  of  hoofs  in  the  brush, — 

A  splash  in  the  placid  bayou, 

An  eager  nose  to  the  air, 

And  lo !  a  palpitant  bellow, 

A  wild-ringing  rapturous  blare !  .  .  . 

Black  bronze  in  the  cool  blue  moonlight ! 
Black  statuesque  bronze  in  the  night! 
Cupped  hands  to  the  stars  uplifted, — 
Dripping,   dripping,  dripping 


24  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Thin  tinkling  streamlets  of  silver, 
Soft-plashing  fountains  of  silver, 
Shimmering-blue  sprinklings  of  silver — 
"  Red-Rock !    Big  killer-of-moose !— Ugh !  " 


RAIN  SONG 
MOTIVE  I 

God  of  the  Thunders,  Thunder-God.          To  be  read  itnth 
Hear  thou  our  medicine  rattles!  MjTEf 

Hear!    Hear  our  sounding  drums!  rhythm. 

Hi!     Our  medicine  bag  on  yonder  rock 
Has  a  power,  a  big-good  medicine  power — 
Three  silver  scales  of  the  Great  Sea  Monster — 
Ho !    Big  rain-medicine !    Strong  rain-medicine !    Ho ! 
Ugh !    Behold !    On  the  rock  by  the  stream  the  Beast 
Has  placed  three  scales  from  his  slimy  belly — 
Ho !    Big  medicine !     Ho !     Strong  medicine ! — 
Silver  scales  of  the  Big  Sea  Monster! 
Hi!     Spirit-of-Thunder,  come  in  thy  fury, 
Come  with  thy  wet  winds,  come  with  thy  many  waters ; 
Come  in  thy  wrath  against  thy  foe 
That  taunts  thee  there  with  his  filthy  poison. 
All  the  children  of  the  earth  are  good, 
Heap-good  in  the  heart  to  the  Thunders; 
All  the  children  of  the  earth  are  bitter — 
Ugh! — bitter  to  thy  foe,  the  Demon! — 
We  spit! — Behold!  we  spit  on  him! 
Come  with  a  heart  that  is  good  to  thy  children — 
Ho!    And  big-many  waters  and  heap-much  rain! 
Come  witrj  a  heart  that  is  bad  to  our  enemy — 

25 


26  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Ho !    And  big-much  lightning,  plenty-big  storm ! 
Ho!    Silver-wing  God,  with  thy  swift  wet  feet, 
Come !    Come !    Come  in  thy  big  black  war  clouds ! 
Hurl  thy  arrows  of  flashing  flame ! 
Rush  at  our  foe  with  thy  whirlwind  waters! 
Crush  with  thy  storms  the  stinking  beast 
That  defies  thee  here  with  his  slimy  poison — 
Ho!    Big  medicine!    Ho!     Strong  medicine! — 
Silver  scales  of  the  Big  Sea  Snake! 

Ho! 

MOTIVE  II 

Hah-yee !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

God  of  the  Thunders,  Thunder-God,  Dance  rhythm 

Hear  thou  our  medicine  rattles !  <£££,  %£ 

Hear!    Hear  our  sounding  drums!  minor  wail. 

Two  moons  the  mountain  brooks  have  been  dry, 

And  the  panting  birds  like  ghosts  in  a  row, 

Sit  in  the  shade  and  sing  no  longer. 

Our  Brother,  the  Sun,  can  find  his  face 

No  more  in  the  shining-glass  of  the  river; 

His  eyes  see  nothing  but  yellow  cracked  mud 

As  wrinkled  as  the  skins  of  our  old  women! 

Eagerly  the  sunflower  lifts  her  mouth  to  the  dew, 

Yet  her  lips  parch  and  her  head  droops, 

And  her  leafy  arms  grow  thin  and  wither! 

Ai-yee!    Thunderer,  Spirit  of  the  Big  Waters, 
With  burning  tongues  all  the  children  of  the  earth — 


RAIN  SONG  27 

The  flower-people  and  the  hungry  grasses, 
The  sky-flyers  and  the  water-walkers — 
All,  all  are  calling,  calling,  calling  to  thee ! — 
Hear!     Hear  our  many,  many  callings! 
Hah-yee !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

Thick  with  hot  dust  the  old  men  of  the  forest 

Stand  with  bended  heads,  complaining  wearily, 

Grumbling  ever  at  the  hot  winds, 

Mumbling  ever  of  the  beating  sun. 

Among  the  brittle  pines  the  fires  run 

With  many  swift  feet  through  the  crackling  bushes; 

And  the  deer,  like  whirling  leaves  in  the  wind, 

Scurry  madly  before  their  scorching  breath. 

The  sweet  wet  grass  of  our  valley-meadows 

Is  blown  by  the  hot  winds  into  powder; 

And  our  ponies  nibble  at  rustling  rushes. 

Like  the  papoose  that  puts  its  hungry  mouth 

To  the  scrawny  breast  of  an  old  squaw, 

The  corn  thirstily  sucks  at  the  earth — 

In  the  blistered  earth  there  is  dust,  dust! 

And  my  brothers  talk  with  thick  hot  tongues, 

And  my  people  walk  with  skinny  bellies, 

And  die  like  the  burning  grass  of  the  prairies! 

Ai-yee !    Thunderer,  Spirit  of  the  Big  Waters, 
With  parching  mouths  all  the  children  of  the  earth — 
The  many-foot-walkers  and  the  belly-creepers, 
The     timber-beasts     and     the     all-over-the-earth- 

walkers — 
All,  all  are  calling,  calling,  calling  to  thee ! 


28  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Hear!     Hear  their  many,  many  callings! 
Hah-yee !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o !    Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

Ugh! 
Ugh! 


MOTIVE  III 

Hah-yaaaaaaah !    Hah-yaaaaaaah !  To  be  read  with 

Hah-yaaaaaaah!     Hah-yaaaaaaah!  £$$%!%* 

God  of  the  Thunders,  Thunder-God,  the  steady  beat 

Hear  thou  our  medicine  rattles!  °hy?hm 

Hear!    Hear  our  sounding  drums! 

Hi-yee!    Behind  the  clouds  on  the  far  horizon, 

Beat,  beat,  beat  on  thy  crashing  war  drums! 

Hi!    Hi!    Hi!    To  the  war-dance  beat, 

Shake  the  earth  with  thy  stamping  feet! 

Over  the  fires  of  the  blazing  sky 

Fling  thy  blankets  of  thick  wet  mist! 

Roll  from  the  hills  the  wet  gray  fog ! 

Blow  from  the  hills  the  cool  wet  winds ! 

Hi !    Come !    Come !    Come,  thou  God  of  the  Thunder ! 

Come  on  thy  whirling  winds  from  the  West! 

Come  with  a  rush  of  thy  wings  of  silver  1 

Crush  our  foe  with  thy  tramping  feet! 

Hi !    Hi !    Hi !    With  thy  flame-plumed  war  club, 

Crack  the  skies  in  wrath  asunder; 

And  pour  from  thy  hand  through  thy  silver  fingers 

Cool  sweet-waters  on  the  panting  earth ! 


RAIN  SONG  29 

Ho!  Winged-One  of  the  rumbling  rain  clouds, 
With  thy  war  drums,   sky  drums,  call  thy  Water- 
Spirits. 

On  thy  serpent-foe — we  spit  on  him ! — 
Let  loose  thy  fire-flashing  Thunder! 
Ho!     Big  Tornado!    Ho!    Thou  Cyclone! 
Rouse  from  slumber,  dash  from  the  North! 
Ho!     Big  Hand-Walker,  who  goes  head  down, 
With  twirling  legs  that  walk  in  the  sky, 
Come  over  the  plains  with  thy  trailing  hair 
Of  tangled  winds  and  twisting  rains! 

Ho!     Thou  God  of  the  Thunder-drums, 
Pour  from  thy  hands  the  many-many  waters: 
Ho!    Rains  like  clouds  of  silver  lances, 
Cool  long  rains  that  slant  from  the  West; 
Rains  that  walk  on  gentle  little  moccasins, 
Softly  slipping  from  the  fogs  in  the  East; 
Cold  white  rains  from  the  Land-of-Winter, 
Dripping  in  the  trees,  beating  on  the  birchbark ; 
Soft  rains,  gray  rains,  rains  that  are  gentle, 
Swift  rains,  big  rains,  rains  that  are  windy — 
Rains,  rains,  many-many  rains! 

Hi!    Thou  God  of  the  Sounding  Thunder, 
Split  the  clouds  with  thy  club  asunder! 
Come!     Come!     Come  with  thy  stamping  feet! 
Hi!     Hi!     Hi!    To  the  war-dance  beat! 
Bitter  in  the  heart  to  the  Great  Sea  Monster ; 
Bitter  to  our  foe;  bitter  to  his  poison — 


30  FLYING  MOCCASINS 

Ho!    Big  medicine!    Ho!     Strong  medicine! 
Silver  scales  of  the  Big  Sea  Snake! 


Ho!    Ho! 

Medicine  Man  to  the  Assembled  Tribe: 


Go  to  thy  wigwams,  my  people.  Conversation- 

Already  the  morning  star  is  high.  matter-of-fact 

Sleep  with  untroubled  hearts.  tone. 

Come  tomorrow  to  the  dancing-ring ; 

The  doctors  will  then  dance  the  Thanks-Song. 

Bring  presents — Ho! — and  plenty  grub! 

Medicine  Man  to  a  Fellow  Medicine  Man: 

Ugh!    Lame-Wolf!  .  .  .  Tobacco!  .  .   . 

Ugh !  .  .  .  I  spit  on  your  red-willow  tobacco ! 

It  has  no  teeth !    It  is  for  squaws !  Brusquely. 

Give  me  your  white  man's  tobacco — 

The  black  stick  with  the  stuck-on  silver  dog!  .   .   . 


Ho! 


PART  II 
LONE  FIRES 


THE  LOON 

A  lonely  lake,  a  lonely  shore, 
A  lone  pine  leaning  on  the  moon; 
All  night  the  water-beating  wings 
Of  a  solitary  loon. 

With  mournful  wail  from  dusk  to  dawn 
He  gibbered  at  the  taunting  stars— 
A  hermit-soul  gone  raving  mad, 
And  beating  at  his  bars. 


33 


GOD  IS  AT  THE  ANVIL 

God  is  at  the  anvil,  beating  out  the  sun ; 

Where  the  molten  metal  spills, 

At  His  forge  among  the  hills 
He  has  hammered  out  the  glory  of  a  day  that's  done. 

God  is  at  the  anvil,  welding  golden  bars; 

In  the  scarlet-streaming  flame 

He  is  fashioning  a  frame 
For  the  shimmering  silver  beauty  of  the  evening  stars. 


34 


PHILOSOPHIC  FROGS 

A  congress  of  bullfrogs  jowl-deep  in  the  slime, 
To  the  droll  moon  was  croaking  its  notions  of  rime. 
And  puffy  with  pride  each  wight  in  the  throng 
Expounded  with  vigor  the  charm  of  his  song: 

"Gr-rump!  Gr-rump!"  bellowed  Green-back,  "I 
sing  of  the  mud;  oh,  the  beautiful,  beautiful 
mud !  " 

And  he  flopped  his  big  belly — ker-plunk! — in  the 
clay  with  a  heave  and  a  terrible  thud. 

"Quite    r-right!      Quite    r-right!"    rejoined    the 

philosophic  band, 
"  Sing  of  the  true,  the  real,  of  the  common  thing 

at  hand." 

"  Ker-r-r-chug!  "  piped  Yellow-Vest,  "  I  sing  of  the 

slimy  pond; 
Eternal   Beauty   is   there,   and   not   in  the  moons 

beyond." 

"  Yer-r  r-right! "  quoth  Plunk,  "  but  don't  be  silly; 
Praise  not  the  slime,  but  its  fruitage,  the  lily." 
35 


36  LONE  FIRES 

"Get    along-ng-ng!    though    flowers    are    sweet," 
scoffed  Blink,  "  we'll  not  concede  a  jot! 

Vermin  nest  in  the  hearts  of  flowers;  all  lilies 
are  touched  with  rot ! " 

"  Jug-o'-r-r-rum !  "  croaked  Puff,  "  why  sing  of  the 

stars,  so  cold,  remote,  and  high ! 
I  pray  to  a  closer,  warmer  light;  I  sing  of  the 

firefly!" 

And  thus  deriding  the  heavenly  host,  this  tribe  with 

vocal  might 
And  philosophic  grunt  held  forth  through  many  a 

summer  night.  .  .  . 

Autumn  marched  in  with  its  bluster  and  blow; 
And  winter  rushed  down  with  a  whirling  of  snow. 
The  swamp-world  lay  dead  and  th'  amphibian  choir 
Slept  songless  and  lean  in  the  beautiful  mire, 
Where  the  muck-rooted  lilies  and  slender  reeds 
Were  a  mess  of  rank  rubbish  and  rotting  weeds. 
And  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  the  substitute  star, 
The  ideal  of  Life,  of  "  things  as  they  are," 
Curled  up  his  carcass  and  jerked  up  his  knees, — 
His  lamp  flickered  out  in  the  first  autumn  breeze. 

And  the  placid  old  moon  widely  yawned,  slyly  blinked ; 
And  the  stars  with  a  chuckle  looked  pond-ward,  and 
winked ! 


THE  WOLF  CRY 

The  Arctic  moon  hangs  overhead; 

The  wide  white  silence  lies  below. 
A  starveling  pine  stands  lone  and  gaunt, 

Black-penciled  on  the  snow. 

Weird  as  the  moan  of  sobbing  winds, 
A  lone  long  call  floats  up  from  the  trail , 

And  the  naked  soul  of  the  frozen  North 
Trembles  in  that  wail. 


37 


THE  CABIN  ON  THE  CLIFF 

The  little  cabin  seems  to  wear 
Such  a  panic-stricken  air, — 
Clinging  perilously  high 
Silhouetted  on  the  sky. 

There  is  such  a  tragic  fear 
In  the  furtive  eyes  that  peer 
Down  upon  the  ocean's  jaw, 
Red  and  ravenous  of  maw. 

Such  a  terror  in  her  soul 
When  the  casual  pebbles  roll, — 
Oh,  the  frantic  nervous  gripping, 
Fearful  that  her  hands  are  slipping ! 

Such  a  never-ending  dread 
Of  the  forest  overhead, — 
Wondering  when  the  inching  spruce 
Will  crowd  her  aching  fingers  loose. 


THE  FOG-BELL 

All  the  long  night,  all  the  long  day, 

When  the  thick  gray  fogs  of  the  sea  were  rolling, 
Where  combers  boom  in  the  leaden  gloom, 

I  heard  the  lugubrious  fog-bell  tolling. 

All  the  long  night,  all  the  long  day, 
With  a  sullen  song  and  a  voice  grown  weary, 

The  slow-tongtted  bell  at  each  long  low  swell, 
Complained  of  a  life  abysmally  dreary. 

All  the  long  night,  all  the  long  day, 

Rest  from  the  tides !  was  the  theme  of  her  moaning ; 
But  the  thin-lipped  surge,  a  pitiless  urge, 

Cracked  his  white  lash  and  jeered  at  her  groaning. 


THE  GRANITE  MOUNTAIN 
To  C.  S. 

I  know  a  mountain,  lone  it  lies 
Under  wide  blue  Arctic  skies. 

Gray  against  the  crimson  rags 
Of  sunset  loom  its  granite  crags. 

Gray  granite  are  the  peaks  that  sunder 
The  clouds,  and  gray  the  shadows  under. 

Down  the  weathered  gullies  flow 
Waters  from  its  crannied  snow ; 

Tumbling  cataracts  that  roar 
Cannonading  down  the  shore ; 

And  rivulets  that  hurry  after 
With  a  sound  of  silver  laughter. 

Up  its  ramparts  winds  a  trail 
To  a  clover-meadowed  vale, 

High  among  the  hills  and  woods 
Locked  in  lonely  solitudes. 
40 


THE  GRANITE  MOUNTAIN  41 

Only  wild  feet  can  essay 

The  perils  of  that  cragged  way. 

And  here  beneath  the  rugged  shoulders 
Of  the  granite  cliffs  and  boulders, 

In  the  valley  of  the  sky 

Where  tranquil  twilight  shadows  lie, 

Hunted  creatures  in  their  flight 
Find  a  refuge  for  the  night. 


DAKOTAH 

Vast  is  the  silent  far-flung  plain, 
Shouldering  its  fields  of  rippling  grain. 

Wide  are  the  winds  that  hurry  by, 
Out  of  the  stretch  of  the  prairie  sky. 

And  the  far  horizons  seem  to  be 
But  a  hint  of  a  Vast  Infinity. 


r\  ANDANTE 


THE  WHITE-THROAT 

£ 


V        il   d  «i      «l^«l     W  «l* 

i__ — « 

All          day  long  JZddlin',          /idditw*.          fiddlin. 

Deep  in  the  somber  solitude, 
Where  only  curious  stars  intrude, 
In  the  sultry  blight  of  August  haze, 
Or  the  rain-washed  air  of  April  days, 
The  white-throat  flutes  in  cadence  long 
His  golden  rivulet  of  song: 
"All-day-long-fiddlin',  fiddlin',  fiddlin'." 

What  joy  he  feels,  what  pride  he  takes 

In  the  simple  tune  he  makes ! 

He  never  envies  Robin's  trills; 

He  never  seems  to  care  for  frills — 

Just  content  in  a  humble  way 

On  his  single  golden  string  to  play : 

"  All-day-long-fiddlin',  fiddlin',  fiddlin'." 

O  lone  drab  singer !  never  weary 
When  other  brilliant  birds  are  dreary, 
Teach  me  my  humble  task  to  do 
With  buoyant  faith  and  courage  true ; 
With  a  gladsome  heart  in  sun  or  rain 
To  sing  unheard  the  brave  refrain : 
"All-day-long-fiddlin',  fiddlin',  fiddlin'." 
43 


REFUGE 

When  stars  ride  in  on  the  wings  of  dusk, 

Out  on  the  silent  plain, 
After  the  fevered  fret  of  day, 

I  find  my  strength  again. 

Under  the  million  friendly  eyes 
That  smile  in  the  lonely  night, 

Close  to  the  rolling  prairie's  heart, 
I  find  my  heart  for  the  fight. 

Out  where  the  cool  long  winds  blow  free, 

I  fling  myself  on  the  sod ; 
And  there  in  the  tranquil  solitude 

I  find  my  soul, — and  God. 


44 


SWAMP-OWL 

A  brooding  pond  in  the  hush  of  dusk, 

As  black  as  the  pools  of  night; 
Rimmed  round  with  spires  of  somber  spruce,- 

Gaunt  ghosts  in  the  phantom  light. 

A  beating  of  heavy  wings  in  the  dark ; 

A  rush  from  the  dismal  glen; 
A  sudden  swoop,  and  the  leaden  wings 

Went  beating  back  again. 

In  the  utter  gloom  of  that  sunken  land, 

Never  a  creature  stirred, 
As  night  beat  into  the  sullen  swamp 

With  the  wings  of  that  ghostly  bird. 


45 


OF  THESE  FOUR  THINGS  I  CANNOT  WRITE 
Of  these  four  Things  I  cannot  write: 

After  the  scourge  of  the  molten  sands  of  the  desert, 
After  the  sunken  hot  eyes  and  the  panting  tongue, — 
The  thrill  of  the  cool  blue  springs  in  the  foothills, 
The   cold-fingered   dew   on   the  lips   parched   and 

blazing, 

And  the  silvery  tinkle  of  green  glacial  waters 
That  sprinkle  the  throbbing  brow.  .  .  . 

After  the  anguish  of  hot  leaden  limbs  on  the  portage, 
After  the  feverish  days  over  deadland  trails, — 
The  repose  of  the  gray-veiled  and  quiet-eyed  twi 
light, 

The  shimmering  haze  of  the  blue  mountain  valley, 
And  the  tranquil  blue  deep  of  the  pool  where  trem 
ulous 
Sleep  the  calm  swimming  stars.  .  .  . 

After  the  footfalls  of  sinister  night  in  the  gullies, 
After  the  ominous  moan  of  the  canyoned  winds, — 
The  touch  of  a  quiet  gray  Presence  beside  me, 
The  confident  sense  of  Hands  hovering  about  me, 
And  the  Call  from  the  hills  where  the  murmurous 

river 

Spills  over  the  white  cascades.  .   .   . 
46 


OF  THESE  FOUR  THINGS  47 

And  when  at  last,  struggling  to  utter 

The  cry  of  these  three  glories, 

My  pen  shall  cease  to  stutter  across  the  page, — 

Shall  be  no  longer  a  futile  stammering  thing, 

But  a  burning  soul,  articulate, — 

Then  I  shall  sing!    Oh,  then  I  shall  sing 

Of  the  glorious  whole  of  these  wild  splendors ! 

Oh,  then  I  shall  sing  of  the  eyes, 

Of  the  dusky  eyes  of  a  Woman. 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE 

When  I  drift  out  on  the  Silver  Sea, 

O  may  it  be 

A  blue  night 

With  a  white  moon 

And  a  sprinkling  of  stars  in  the  cedar  tree ; 

And  the  silence  of  God, 

And  the  low  call 

Of  a  lone  bird, — - 

When  I  drift  out  on  the  Silver  Sea. 


48 


PART  III 

CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 
A  GROUP  OF  INDIAN  COUNCIL  TALKS 


THE  WINDS  OF  FIFTY  WINTERS  * 

The  Weasel-Eye,  the  hawk-nosed  one, 

With  the  long  white  beard  and  soft  white  hands, 

Arose  before  the  Pillagers  and  Otter  tails 

Who  squatted  by  the  council-fire. 

Fixing  on  his  nose  the  little  windows, 

And  putting  on  his  face  a  pretty  smile, 

The  Weasel-Eye  "  made  talk,  big  talk  ": 

THE  WEASEL-EYE  TALKS : 

"  Mv  brothers,  good  red  brothers,  To  be  read  with 

0  ,11  a  patronising 

Brothers  each  and  all,  ai>  ,-H  a  florid, 

By  rne,  his  honest  trusted  agent  declamatory 

Whose  heart  is  good  to  the  Indian, 
The  Great  White  Chief  sends  greetings 
To  his  good  red  children — 
Ah!  and  many  pretty  presents! 

(Ho! 

Hi-yah!    Hi-yah! 

How!   How!    How!) 

"  Gaze  ye  I—Flashing  silver-glass 
And  tinkling  copper  bells! 
And  powder  kegs  and  beads, 

*For  supplementary  notes  on  "The  Winds  of  Fifty  Win 
ters"  and  other  poems  in  Part  III,  see  Appendix,  page  71. 


52  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

And  tall  black  shining  hats! 
Ye  shall  walk  arrayed 
Like  yon  gorgeous  blazing  sun 
If  ye  but  heed  my  counsel. 

(Ho!    Ho!    Ho!) 

"Go  ye  North! 

Forsake  these  rolling  hills; 

This  vast,  too-vast  country. 

Forsake  these  wolf-infested  forests, 

That  Pale-Face  tillers  of  the  soil 

May  lay  their  Iron-Roads 

And  scratch  the  ground  for  harvests. 

Go  ye  North !  to  the  barren  lands, 

To  the  land  of  the  marked-out  ground. 

And  though  there  be  no  moose 

Within  its  flame-swept  timber, 

Nor  whitefish  in  its  waters, 

Nor  patches  of  wild  berries, 

Nor  fields  of  nodding  rice, 

Yet  will  ye  be  content 

For  I  will  pay  ye  well ; 

To  every  warrior,  guns, — 

Six  beavers'  worth; 

To  every  headman,  blankets, — 

Red  as  yonder  sky ; 

To  every  chieftain,  ponies, — 

Six,  more  or  less. 

And  there,  in  the  marked-out  North, 

Your  tribe  may  eat  and  dance 

Forever  and  forever," 


THE  WINDS  OF  FIFTY  WINTERS      53 

"  Gaze  upon  me,  O  my  brothers, 

My  good  red  brothers, 

And  heed  ye  well  my  counsel ! 

The  winds  of  fifty  winters 

Have  blown  about  my  head, 

And,  lo !  my  hair  is  white  with  snow ! 

The  winds  of  fifty  winters 

Have  blown  about  my  head, 

And,  lo!  much  wisdom  lodged  therein! 

And  from  the  winds  of  fifty  winters, 

Their  wisdom,  storms,  and  snows, 

Lo!  I  counsel  ye: 

Sign  ye  this  treaty ! 

Take  ye  the  presents ! 

Go  ye  to  the  North ! " 

In  the  council-grove  long  silence  jell, 

Save  for  a  little  laughing  wind 

That  wandered  in  the  pines. 

Then,  sinuous  and  supple  as  the  wildcat, 

Ah-nah-mah-kee,  the  "  Thunder-Bolt"  strode  forward. 

And  stood  a  moment  silent — 

Straight  as  the  Norway  pine 

That  rears  its  head  above  yon  timber; 

And  in  his  eyes  the  many  little  lightnings  Hashed, 

But  on  the  corner  of  his  mouth  a  sunbeam  played: 

THUNDER-BOLT  TALKS  : 

"  O  my  brothers,  my  red  brothers, 
Brothers  each  and  all, 


54 


CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 


The  Weasel-Eye  has  spoken. 

He  has  opened  up  his  honey  mouth; 

And  from  the  heart  that  is  so  good 

He  has  poured  his  sounding  words. 

His  heap-much  pretty  talk 

Is  like  the  tinkling  stream 

Of  babbling  sweet-water  that  gurgles 

Down  from  the  mountain  springs. 

But  like  the  sweet-water  of  the  brook, 

That  stops  its  pretty  running 

In  the  swamp  and  stands  one  sleep 

In  the  deep  and  quiet  pools, 

The  pretty  words  turn  bitter-sour. 


To  be  read  sim 
ply  and  quietly 
with  an  under 
current  of 
humor  and 
innuendo. 


"  Gaze  upon  me,  O  my  brothers, 

My  good  red  brothers! 

The  winds  of  fifty  winters 

Have  blown  about  my  head, 

And,  lo!  my  hair  is  white  with  snow! 

The  winds  of  fifty  winters 

Have  blown  about  my  head, 

And  lo!  much  wisdom  lodged  therein! 

The  winds  of  fifty  winters 

Have  blown  about  my  head — 

But,  lo !  they  have  not  blown  away  my  brains ! 

I  am  done !  " 


To  be  read  in  a 
florid,  pompous 
manner. 


(Ho! 

Hi!    Hi! 

How!    How!    How!) 


CHIEF  BEAR'S-HEART  "MAKES  TALK" 

Agent-man  from  Keetch-ie  O-gi-ma,  To  be  read 

Our  Big  W'ite  Chief,  %£g* 

De  heart  of  all  de  'Cheebway  deep  resonant 

In  my  tribe  are  good  to  you ;  J™ 

My  people  want  your  heart  broken  by 

Be  good  to  all  de  Eenzhuns.  J£ 

tion. 

In  Summer-of-de-Many-Rains, 
Comes  Long-Blade  soldier,  Major  Rice, 
An*  Black-Robes  priest,  for  mak'-um  treaty. 
Dey  mak'-um  talk  in  council,  so: 
"  'Cheebway,  'Cheebway,  mak'-um  treaty ; 
Walk  on  far-away  reservation  an'  live; 
You  go  new  reservation,  you  get-um  plenty  t'ing 
From  Keetch-ie  6-gi-ma: 
Get-um  plenty  grub  an'  money; 
Plenty  t'ing  for  belly  an'  for  back." 
Den  Long-Blade  stick-urn  one  hand 
On  Big-Black-Book  an'  treaty-paper, 
An'  raise-um  oder  hand  to  Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do, 
De  w'ite  man's  Big  Spirit,  an'  say: 
"  'Cheebway,  all  dose  t'ing  on  treaty  sure  will  be !  "... 
Ho!     Eenzhun  scratch-urn  paper; 
Stick-um  t'umb  on  treaty; 
An'  walk  on  reservation. 

55 


56  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

Wat's  come  treaty  now!     Ugh? 

No  got-um  plenty  grub! 
'Cheebway  got-um  small  flat  belly; 
No  got-um  w'ite  man's  big  fat  belly ! 

Comes  soon  de  Winter-Maker, 

Blowing  on  de  river  wit'  hees  icy  breat', 

An'  making  dem  stand  still  With  repressed 

Wit'  sleep  beneat'  de  snow.  ""f^^in 

An'  Nort'  Wind  whistle  crazy-wild  power. 

T'rough  crying  spruce  an'  cedar; 

An'  Muk-wa,  ol'  fat  bear,  he  sleep 

An'  sheever  in  hees  hole; 

An'  Pee-nay,  hungry  pa'tridge, 

Bury  in  de  balsam  snow-drif. 

Now  walk  on  Eenzhun  wee-ga-wam! 

'Cheebway  sit  dere  hungry, — 

In  winter  no  can  get-um  grub  lak  moose 

Who  paw  big  hole  in  snow  for  plenty  moss. 

No  got-um  plenty  money; 

No  got-um  w'ite  man's  grub. 

Squaw,  she  got-um  sick, — 

Bad  osh-kee-shee-gwa-pee-nay, — 

She  sick  on  eye  lak  devil-hell. 

Sqiiaw-sich,  little  gal, 

She  got-um  measles-sick, 

De  Spotted-Sickness  on  de  face. 

Little  boy,  he  got-um  heap-sick, — 

Bad  6h-pun-nah-pee-nay, — 

Bad  Coughing-Sickness ; 


BEAR'S-HEART   "MAKES  TALK"      57 

Ugh!    He  spit  all-tarn' !— 
Got-um  sick  on  lung,  an*  hot  on  cheek; 
Got-um  eye  she  blaze  lak  wildcat!  .   .   . 
W'y  should  be  dose  t'ing? 

Ugh!    Go  w'ite  man's  town:  Slowly  and 

TT  1  1.  brokenly  with  a 

He  got-um  plenty  grub;  note  ofyirony. 

Hees  belly  laugh  wit'  grub ! 

W'y  should  be  diff'rence,  ha-aaah? 

Mebbe  w'ite  man's  God  he  want-um  diff'rence !    Ugh ! 

Mebbe  Ma-ni-do  no  lak-um  Eenzhun  chil'en !     Hah ! 

Mebbe  Ma-ni-do  f  orget-um  Eenzhun  chil'en !     Ugh ! 

Mebbe  so !    Mebbe  so !  .  .  . 

Mebbe  no!  With  dramatic 

Look-um  straight! 

Talk-um  straight! 

Ai-yee!    Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do 

He  no  f  orget-um  'Cheebway  Eenzhun! 

Eenzhun  chil'en,  good  chil'en ! 

Big  Spirit  lak-um  Eenzhun  chil'en 

Jus'  so  much  he  lak-um  Long-Knife.  Slowly,  with 

,Tr    ,      rr    .  subtle  changes 

(H°-f     Ho!  of  emotion 

How!     How!)  from  humor 

Inspector  Taylo',  %£?£ 

In  council  of  olden  tarn*  bitterness. 

De  Long-Blade  stick-um  hand  on  Big-Black-Book, 
AnJ  raise-um  oder  hand  to  sky  an'  say : 
"  All  dose  t'ing  on  treaty-paper  sure  will  be ! " 

Mebbe.  .   .   . 
Mebbe.  . 


58  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

Mebbe  he  was  only  fool  for  fun  !    Hah? 
Ho  !    Long-Blade  only  fool  for  fun  !    Ho  ! 


Mebbe  so!  .  .   .  Mebbe  so!  .   .   . 

Mebbe  hees  tongue  talk-um 
Little  bit  crooked  !    Ho  ? 

Mebbe  so!  .   .   .  Mebbe  so!  .   .  . 

Mebbe  he  got-um  forks  in  tongue,  With  intense 

Wit'  little  poison-gland!    Ugh! 
Eenzhun  t'ink  —  pressed. 

He  lie!  .  .  . 

Look  on  me!  .  .  . 
Look  on  me!  .  .  . 
Look  on  me!  .  .  . 

Talk-um  straight  today! 

No  got-um  double-snake-tongue!   .    .    . 

I  have  said  it! 

(Ho! 

How!    How! 

Ho!    Ho!    Ho!) 


LITTLE-CARIBOU  MAKES  "BIG  TALK" 

Boo-zhoo !     Boo-zhoo !  To  be  read 

Me,  Ah-deek-koons,  I  mak-um  big  talk.      JjJjJjSjJJi* 

Me,  or  man ;  I'm  got-um  sick  on  knee         voice  with  a 
T          •  jj  >       T>  11        TT  ui        touch  of  queru- 

In  rainy  wedder  w  en  I  m  walk.    Ugh !       lousness  and 

Me,  lak  moose  w'at's  ol',  petulance,  and 

T,       ,  !  , , ,  an  occasional 

I  m  drop-um  plenty  toot  !  note  Oj 

Yet  I  am  big  man !    Ho !  drollery. 

An'  I  am  talk-um  big !    Ho ! 

(Hi-yee!    Blow  lak  moose,  oly  man! 
Ho!    Ho! 

Hi-yi!     Little-Caribou  him  talk 
Lak  6-rnah-kah-kee,  dose  Bullfrog: 
Big  mout' ,  big  belly, 
No  can  fight!) 

Ugh!     Close  mout',  young  crazy  buck! 
You  stop-um  council-talk, 
You  go  'way  council! 
Sit  wit'  squaw! 
You  lak  little  poh-toong, 
Lak  polly wog  tad-pole : 
No  can  jump-um 
Over  little  piece  mud; 
59 


60  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

Can  only  shake-um  tail 
Lak  crazy-dam-fool!   .    .    . 

Keetch-ie  O-gi-ma,  Big  Preshiden', 

He  got-um  plenty  t'oughts  in  head ; 

Me,  Caribou,  Pm  got-um  plenty-good  t'oughts, 

Got-um  plenty-good  t'oughts  in  head. 

Yet  Eenzhun-Agent  all-tarn'  saying : 

"Ah-deek-koons,  he  crazy  ol'  fool ! " 

Ugh !    He  crazy  ol'  fool ! 

Keetch-ie  O-gi-ma  long  tarn'  ago 

Was  say  in  Pine  Point  Treaty: 

"  All  de  'Cheebway  should  be  farmer ; 

All  will  get  from  Washin'ton  gov'ment 

Good  allotment  farm  land, 

One  hondred-sixty  acre  each."    Ho ! 

Ho !     Eenzhun  scratch-um  treaty ! 

Stick-um  t'umb  on  treaty ! 

Wat's  come  treaty?    Hah? 

Eenzhun  got-um  hondred-sixty  acre, 

But  got-um  too  much  little  pieces, — 

Pieces  scattered  over  lake 

Lak  leaves  she's  blow  by  wind. 

In  tam'rack  swamp  by  Moose  Tail  Bay 

,He  got-um  forty  acre  piece. 

•Ten  mile  away,  on  Lake  of  Cut-Foot  Sioux, 

In  mush-kaig  an'  in  rice-field, 

He  got-um  forty  acre  more. 

On  Bowstring  Lake,  she's  forty-mile  away, 


LITTLE-CARIBOU  MAKES  "BIG  TALK"  61 

In  sand  and  pickerel  weed, 

He  got-um  forty  acre  more. 

Hondred  mile  away,  on  Lac  La  Croix, 

Were  lumberman  is  mak'  big  dam 

For  drive-urn  log, — an'  back-um  up  water 

All  over  Eenzhun  allotment  land, — 

He  got-um  forty  acre  more, — all  under  lake ! 

How  can  Eenzhun  be  good  farmer !     Ugh  ? 

He's  got-um  land  all  over  lake ! 

He's  got-um  land  all  under  lake! 

For  Eenzhun  be  good  farmer 

Eenzhun  should  be  good  for  walking  under  water ! 

Should  be  plow  hees  land  wit'  clam-drag ! 

Should  be  gadder  potato  crops  wit'  fish-net! 

For  Eenzhun  be  good  farmer 

Eenzhun  should  be  fish! 

Ugh! 

I  have  said  it! 

(Ho!    Ho!    Ho! 

Hi!    Hi!    Plenty-big  talk! 

How!) 


WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS 

Boo-zhoo !    Inspector  Taylor ! 

I,  Wah-wee-yah-tun-ung,  Chief  Whirling-Rapids, 

Make  this  talk,  "  big  talk,"  for  all  my  people 

Sitting  there  in  the  pines.  To  be  read 

stolidly  and 
monotonously 

In  eighteen  eighty-nine  with  deep  reso- 

The  Long-Blade,  Major  Rice, 
Called  council  with  the  O  jib  ways  on  Pine  Point, 
And  there  he  made  this  big  and  pretty  talk: 
K'tchee-gah-mee  Indians,  men  of  the  land  of  the  Big- 
Water, 

Today  we  will  make  a  good  treaty; 
Go  to  the  marked-out  reservation; 
Here  will  come  no  white  men; 
Here  will  ye  hunt  and  dance  in  peace, 
Free  from  all  the  Long-Knives." 

Ho!    Good  talk!    Pretty  talk! 

(Ho! 
Ugh! 
Ho!  Ho!) 

Ugh !    Talk  now  of  the  Treaty  of  Pine  Point ! 
Comes  too  much  white  man  on  the  reservation ! 

62 


WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS  63 

My  people  know  the  story ! 

It  is  marked  on  the  slashed  pine, 

And  the  burned  timbers, 

And  the  scratched  earth. 

Came  the  trappers  for  our  beaver; 

Came  the  crazy  Iron-Roads, 

And  the  crazy  Fire- Wagons, 

Blowing  Devil's-Noise, 

Puffing  Devil's-Breath — 

Ugh! 

Came  the  loggers  with  their  axes, 

With  their  flashing  iron  axes; 

And  our  mighty  forests  trembled 

From  the  cursings — from  the  clashings 

Of  the  irons  everywhere — 

Ugh! 

Came  the  rat-eyed  little  traders 

With  their  shining  silver  clocks, 

Their  eesh-kwo-day-wah-boo, 

Their  plenty  Fire-Water, 

Their  plenty  Devil's-Spit— 

Ugh! 

Came  many,  many  Long-Knives, 

Pretty  on  the  outside, 

Rotten  in  the  heart ; 

From  the  many,  many  towns 

Came  many  waves  of  white  men — 

Big  wave,  big  wave, 

Wave,  wave,  wave. 

And  my  people  wither  like  the  oak-leaves; 

And  hunger  stalks  about  my  village ; 


64  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

And  sickness  spots  my  little  children  ;  From  this  point 

And  often  in  the  Moon-of-Freezing  ',&£*£  read 

The  chantings  for  the  dead  are  as  many  with  a  sustained 

As  the  waitings  of  the  starving  panthers.  &££* 

Ai-yeee  !     Pity  us  !  »»  volume  and 
Ai-yeee!    Pity  us! 


Little  wave,  little  wave, 

Big  wave,  big  wave, 

Wave,  wave,  wave,  — 

So  comes  the  white  man  in  the  North, 

Like  the  waters  of  the  ocean. 

On  the  waters  of  that  sea  walks  the  Indian 

In  his  frail  and  battered  Chee-mon, 

In  his  dancing  birch  canoe, 

And  he  paddles  from  the  dawn  to  the  twilight. 

Comes  the  little  rippling  water  on  the  bow, 

Little  white  fingers  rippling  on  the  birch-bark, 

Rippling  white  fingers  blowing  in  the  breeze. 

Comes  little  wave  of  white  men, 

Little  wave,  little  wave, 

Many  pretty  waves. 

Comes  bigger  wave  of  white  men, 
Bigger  wave  of  white  men, 
Big  waves,  big  waves, 
Tumbling  into  the  silver  shore, 
Rumbling  as  they  come; 
Foaming,  roaring,  leaping  billows, 
Bending  like  the  weeping  willows, 
Rolling  up  and  tumbling  over, 


WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS  65 

Rolling, 

Rolling, 

Rolling  up  and  rolling  under, 

Growling  with  a  mighty  thunder, — 

Higher,  higher,  wildly  leaping  higher — 

Flashing  tongues  across  the  sky, 

Fire  in  the  crackling  clouds,  fire! — 

Wave,  wave,  wave, 

Rolling  up  and  tumbling  over, 

Shattering  silver  spray 

On  the  Indian  in  the  Chee-mon, 

Battering  iron  fists  upon  his  birch-bark, — 

Crazy  laughing  crazy-waters, 

Crazy  hands  and  crazy  arms 

Splashing  wildly  in  the  wind, 

Crashing  madly  on  the  tossing  birch-bark, 

Smashing  wildly  at  the  wailing  'Cheebway  .  .  . 

And  the  Indian  walking  on  the  waters 

Flings  his  chantings  to  the  Spirits  in  the  sky: 

"  Hah-eee-ooooo!    Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do, 

I  sing  the  chant  of  death! 

O  pity  me !  To  be  read  with 

And  stop  the  crazy-waters, 

Ai-yee!  the  rolling  waves  of  ivhite  men. 

0  pity  me! 

Hah-eee-ooooo  I    Keetch-ie  Md-ni-do! 

1  am  asking  with  a  good  heart 
That 

"Ai-yee!    The  Spirit  cannot  hear  me; 
Nothing  does  he  hear 


66  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

But  the  clashing  iron  axes,  Chanting 

.    ,  ceases.     With 

The  rumblings  of  the  waters,  dramatic  force 

And  the  cursings  in  the  timber  on  the      slightly  re- 

pressed,  and 
Shore.  .   .  .  wailing. 

"  Ai-yee !    He  hurls  his  balls  of  fire, 
Fiercely  crashing  in  the  timber, — 
In  the  timber 
There  is  Death ! 

"  O  pity  me ! 

"  Ai-yee !    He  lashes  at  his  clouds, 
At  his  frightened  shivering  clouds, 
With  his  whips 
Of  cracking  wind ! 

"  O  pity  me ! 

"  Ai-yee !    He  lunges  with  his  spear, 
With  his  double-lightning  spear, 
At  the  trembling 
Little  Chee-mon! 

"O  pity  me!  .   .   . 
O  pity  me!   .    .    ." 

.  •  •  • 

Look!    He  plunges  at  the  wailing  'Cheebway— 
Look !— With  crazy  hands  of  crazy-waters !  .   .   . 


WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS  67 

Lo !  and  Death  walks  with  the  Indian 
On  the  bottom  of  the  lake, 
Beneath  the  crazy-waters, 
Crashing  up  and  rolling  over  .   .  . 
Crashing  up  ...  and  rolling  over  .  .  . 
Crashing  up  ...  and  rolling  over  .  .  . 
Rolling  .   .   .  rolling  .   .   . 
Rolling  over  .  .   .  over  .  .  . 
Rolling  .  .  .  rolling  .  .   .  rolling  .  .  . 


Now  the  dripping  sun  is  laughing  in  the  rainbow-sky, 

On  the  quivering  silver  birches  on  the  land ; 

And  the  laughing  little  waters  with  their  little  white 

feet,  Quietly  with 

Run  pattering  on  the  shifting  yellow  sand. 
But  the  Devil-Spirit,  Much-ie  Ma-ni-do, 
Is  walking  on  the  bottom  of  the  lake, 
In  the  drifting  tangled  weeds, 
In  the  water  shimmering  green 
Where  the  fishes  flash 
And  shiver  in  the  sun. 
He  is  shaking  his  big  belly, 
He  is  winking  his  red  eye 
At  the  Long-Knife  who  stands  chuckling 
Where  the  waters  wash  the  shore, 
At  the  buzzard-taloned  white  man 
Who  stands  gazing  at  the  bottom  of  the  waters. 

Ugh !    Crazy  Long-Knife !  .  .  . 


68  CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

Ugh !     Crazy  Devil !  .   .    .  Quietly  and 

brokenly — with 
sharp  changes 
Ai-ee!     Drifting  body  of  emotion. 

That  lies  tangled  in  the  weeds !  .   .  . 
I  have  said  it! 


(Ho! 

How!    How!    How! 

Ho!) 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

The  following  supplementary  notes  concerning  the 
legends  and  superstitions  which  form  the  background 
of  certain  of  the  poems  of  Indian  theme  in  Parts  I 
and  III  may  prove  helpful  to  the  reader.  It  is  sug 
gested,  therefore,  that  if  he  wishes  to  grasp  their 
full  meaning,  he  read  the  notes  in  the  Appendix 
before  reading  the  poems  in  these  two  groups. 


FLYING  MOCCASINS 
THE  BLUE  DUCK 

"  The  Blue  Duck  "  is  a  poetic  interpretation  of  an 
American  Indian  medicine  dance.  In  early  autumn 
the  tribe,  which  has  gathered  in  the  dancing-ring,  is 
supposed  to  have  placed  on  a  pole  by  the  shore  of 
Ah-bi-too-bi  (Half-full-of-water), — a  lake  adjoining 
the  Indian  village, — a  crudely  carved  wooden  duck. 
The  ceremony  is  begun  by  the  drummers  who  beat 
monotonously  upon  the  drums.  The  singers  and  the 
dancers  then  begin  to  stamp  and  to  shout  and  to 
grunt,  and  finally  to  dance.  The  chief  medicine  men 
— priests,  "  mystery  men,"  who  by  virtue  of  their 
special,  powerful  medicine  songs  and  their  rare  "  med- 

71 


72  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

icines  "  are  thought  to  have  supernatural  power  in  in 
fluencing  the  spirits  with  which  the  earth,  the  sea, 
and  the  sky  are  inhabited — finally  break  into  a  song 
and  sometimes  a  chant,  in  which  they  invoke  Keetch-ie 
Ma-ni-do,  "  The  Big  Spirit,"  to  send  down  from  the 
North  a  big  flight  of  ducks  for  the  fall  hunt,  "to 
make  a  good  duck  season." 

"  Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,"  a  word  which  appears  in 
many  of  the  poems,  means  literally,  "  Big  Spirit," — 
broadly,  "  The  Great  Mystery,"  "  The  Big  God."  In 
the  mind  of  the  American  Indian  of  pagan  faith,  the 
world  is  full  of  spirits,  good  and  evil;  the  spirits  of 
beasts,  of  birds,  and  of  the  dead;  the  spirits  of  the 
four  winds,  of  the  storm  and  of  thunder  and  of 
lightning, — the  several  lieutenants  of  the  "  Big  Spirit." 
But  above  all  these  minor  deities  rules  Keetch-ie 
Ma-ni-do,  the  All-Powerful  One. 

"  The  Blue  Duck "  and  the  other  interpretations 
of  Indian  dances  should  be  read  aloud.  Their  rhyth 
mic  beat  should  be  maintained  vigorously  and  stead 
ily,  except  where  the  dancing  ceases  and  periods  of 
chanting  are  noted. 


CHIPPEWA  FLUTE  SONG 

Notwithstanding  the  seeming  chaos  and  lack  of  mel 
ody  in  Indian  song,  the  Indian  is  very  musical.  Every 
phase  of  his  life  and  every  aspiration  finds  expression 
in  some  lyric  burst  of  music.  There  are  religious 
songs,  hunting  songs,  and  medicine  songs;  dream 


APPENDIX  73 

songs,  lullabies,  and  love  songs ;  war-dance,  pipe-dance, 
and  social  dance  songs;  gambling-game  songs,  songs 
narrating  personal  achievements,  songs  to  accompany 
gifts  and  songs  of  thanks,  songs  for  the  spirits,  songs 
for  the  dead,  and  songs  to  heal  the  sick, — songs  with 
out  number.  In  all  his  music  there  are  many  weird, 
haunting  qualities, — certain  qualities  and  certain  mo 
tives  which  American  musicians  might  profitably 
study,  and  develop  into  a  distinctive  American  con 
tribution  to  musical  history.  Indian  music  may  be 
instrumental, — as  for  example  the  music  of  the  Bee- 
bee-gwun,  the  Indian  flute, — or  it  may  be  vocal.  The 
latter  may  be  accompanied,  as  in  the  dances,  the  medi 
cine  songs,  and  similar  ceremonies,  by  drums  and 
rattles,  or  it  may  be  unaccompanied. 

All  Indian  music,  despite  its  seeming  formlessness, 
its  complexity,  and  its  cacophony,  is  for  the  most  part 
quite  simple,  and  fairly  definite  in  form.  In  most 
of  his  songs  he  uses  but  few  simple  notes,  and  these 
usually  in  downward  progression,  beginning  with  high 
falsetto  tones  and  ending  in  low  guttural  sounds, 
punctuated  with  an  occasional  slurred  note,  a  slide, 
a  quaver,  a  wail,  a  call,  or  an  explosive  shout. 

Although  the  "  Chippewa  Flute  Song "  will  yield 
its  melody  through  any  one  of  several  simple  methods 
of  interpretation  that  will  occur  to  the  reader,  if  in 
interpreting  the  poem  aloud  he  will  improvise  his 
own  melody,  merely  bearing  in  mind  the  suggestion 
that  he  should  chant  the  words  softly  with  an  occa 
sional  downward  slide  at  the  end  of  every  sentence 
— not  line — and  at  other  points  where  the  voice  natu- 


74  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

rally  falls,  he  will  most  accurately  catch  the  spirit 
of  the  poem  and  of  the  original  situation  which  I 
have  sought  to  express. 

THE  SQUAW-DANCE 

"  The  Squaw-Dance,"  or  "  Woman's  Dance,"  often 
called  the  "  Give-Away  Dance,"  is  a  poem  written 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  "  outsider "  and  de 
scriptive  of  a  very  common  Chippewa  social  dance 
in  which  both  men  and  women  may  participate.  In 
the  United  States,  bands  of  Indians  often  gather  at 
some  reservation  village  to  celebrate  the  Fourth  of 
July  with  a  big  "  war-dance "  to  which  white  men 
are  invited.  Generally,  however,  the  "  war-dance " 
is  really  the  rollicking,  social  "  Squaw-Dance  " ;  the 
celebration  is  called  a  "  war-dance "  often  for  the 
benefit  of  the  gullible,  thrill-hunting  tourist  to  whom 
all  Indian  music  is  alike. 

In  the  course  of  the  dancing  it  is  customary  for 
the  Indian  to  present  a  gift, — a  bit  of  tobacco,  a 
trinket,  a  pair  of  moccasins, — to  some  friend,  either 
a  man  or  a  woman.  Whereupon  the  recipient  must 
dance  with  the  friend  thus  complimenting  him,  and 
return  the  honor  with  a  gift  of  equal  value.  And 
thus  with  these  frequent  interruptions  due  to  the 
"  giving  away  "  of  presents,  the  celebration  continues 
all  day  with  much  vigorous  dancing,  loud  laughter, 
and  lusty  singing.  The  Squaw-Dance  celebration  has 
no  place  for  a  melancholy,  moribund  person,  or  for 
a  dour,  dyspeptic  misanthrope. 


APPENDIX  75 

BEAT  AGAINST  ME  NO  LONGER 

In  this  interpretation  of  an  Indian  love  song  the 
lines  beginning,  "  Be  not  as  the  flat-breasted  squaw- 
sich  .  .  .  who  hides  three  sleeps  in  the  forest  .  .  .," 
refer  to  an  old  Algonquian  custom  that  a  young  girl 
in  the  period  of  puberty  must  leave  the  village  in 
shame  and  must  live  alone  for  a  certain  period  of 
time  in  a  wigwam  in  the  wilderness. 

THE  CONJURER 

The  chee-sah-kee,  the  conjurer  or  juggler,  is  a  sort 
of  mystery-man  who  works  in  league  with  the  bad 
spirits  and  Much-ie  Ma-ni-do,  the  Devil-Spirit,  rather 
than  with  the  good  spirit-helpers  of  the  medicine  men, 
— although  some  conjurers  may  be  both  chee-sah-kee 
and  medicine  men.  This  magician  is  regarded  by  the 
older  superstitious  folk, — and  by  many  pagan  Indians 
today, — as  possessing  the  power  to  establish  a  league 
with  the  evil  spirits,  whereby  he  may  perform  great 
feats  of  magic  and  of  spiritualism.  In  one  of  his 
performances  the  juggler  is  bound  with  ropes  of  tough 
bark  and  is  placed  in  the  chee-sah-kan,  his  specially 
built  teepee,  the  poles  of  which  are  so  stout  and  so 
deeply  planted  in  the  earth  that  they  cannot  be  moved 
by  a  human  being.  The  conjurer  then  chants  his 
"  magic  song,"  uses  his  "  charms,"  invokes  the  aid 
of  the  spirits,  and  thereby  performs  the  feats  sug- 


76  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

gested  in  this  poem, — if  his  medicine  is  "  strong."  (If 
a  conjurer  or  medicine  man  ever  fails,  it  is  not  the 
fault  of  the  religion,  or  of  the  philosophy;  the  medi 
cine  was  "  bad,"  or  some  jealous  spirit  treacherously 
worked  against  him.)  "  The  Conjurer  "  is  a  very  free 
interpretation  of  the  chant  which  the  chee-sah-kee 
sings  as  he  lies  bound  in  the  wigwam  and  performs 
his  conjurings.  The  short,  isolated,  indented  stanzas 
in  the  poem  are  the  conjurer's  "  asides  "  to  his  Indian 
audience. 

Naturally  one  may  be  skeptical  about  the  power 
of  a  man  to  work  these  wonders.  Nevertheless,  they 
are  actually  performed  by  Indian  "  doctors "  today. 
My  Indian  friend,  Ah-zhay-waince,  "  Other-Side,"  a 
medicine  man  of  the  Pigeon  River  Reservation,  can 
perform  these  feats  and  many  others  as  mysterious. 


RED-ROCK,  THE  MOOSE-HUNTER 

When  the  primitive  Indian  of  the  Canadian  North 
went  hunting,  he  "  called  "  or  lured  moose  by  two 
methods.  Sometimes  with  a  bit  of  birch-bark  he 
would  imitate  the  call  of  a  moose.  This  scheme  still 
survives  among  woods  Indians,  and  is  familiar  to  the 
white  man.  In  the  other  lesser-known  method,  dur 
ing  the  quiet  evening  when  it  is  the  habit  of  moose 
to  come  out  of  the  "  bush  "  to  the  lakes,  to  drink,  to 
feed  upon  the  lilies,  and  to  plunge  into  the  water 
in  order  to  shake  off  the  moose-flies,  the  deer-flies, 
and  the  "  no-see-ums,"  the  moose-hunting  Indian 


APPENDIX  77 

would  wade  into  the  water  of  a  "  plug-hole  "  or  "  good 
moose-lake."  Here  for  hours  he  would  imitate  the 
splashings  and  the  drippings  of  feeding  moose,  on 
the  theory  that  moose  in  the  vicinity  would  in  the 
quiet  evening  hear  the  sounds  and  be  attracted  by 
them.  This  primitive,  little-known  method  lies  at 
the  foundation  of  the  poem,  "  Red-Rock,  the  Moose- 
Hunter." 


RAIN  SONG 

This  interpretation  of  an  Algonquian-Lenape  medi 
cine  song  for  "  making  rain "  is  based  upon  an  old 
Indian  superstition.  During  this  medicine  dance  a 
buckskin  sack  containing  small  mica-like  scales  is 
placed  on  a  boulder  by  a  stream  near  the  dancing- 
ground.  These  bits  of  mica, — the  "  rain-medicine," 
— are  believed  to  be  scales  from  the  body  of  the  legen 
dary  Great  Horned  Sea  Monster.  It  is  believed  that 
if  these  scales  are  thus  exposed  during  the  ceremony, 
the  Thunderer  and  his  allies,  the  Thunder-Spirits  and 
the  Rain-Spirits,  who  loathe  the  Sea  Monster,  will 
come  with  the  fury  of  their  storms  and  clouds  and 
rains  to  attack  their  traditional  enemy  who  has  the 
impudence  to  lift  his  head  out  of  the  stream,  and 
the  effrontery  to  expose  a  part  of  his  body  to  the 
gaze  of  the  Thunder-Beings. 

The  conversational  section  at  the  close  of  the  poem 
is  not  a  part  of  the  song  proper.  I  have  added  these 
typical  colloquial  "  asides  "  to  illustrate  the  contrast 


78  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

between  the  loftiness  and  the  idealizations  often  at 
tained  in  Indian  song  and  ceremony,  and  the  com- 
monplaceness  and  the  realities  of  much  of  his  extra- 
ceremonial,  colloquial  talk.  Similarly,  my  desire  to 
keep  the  characters  in  this  book  true  to  type,  a  type 
that  is  peculiar  in  its  combination  of  idealism  and 
materialism,  the  beautiful  and  the  crass  or  vulgar,  the 
primitive  and  the  modern, — this  desire  accounts  for 
many  of  the  incongruities,  the  strange  idioms,  and 
the  inelegant  phrases  in  "  Rain  Song  "  and  in  certain 
other  poems. 

The  "  Rain  Song  "  most  clearly  illustrates  the  phi 
losophy  and  the  practices  of  the  medicine  men.  Many 
Indians,  even  in  this  day,  have  utter  faith  in  the 
power  of  the  medicine  men  to  accomplish  miracles  of 
healing,  jugglery,  and  wonder-working.  I  have  al 
ready  commented  briefly  upon  their  practices ;  by  vir 
tue  of  their  rare  medicines, — herbs,  clays,  skins,  sub 
stances  of  all  sorts  having  "  power," — and  with  the 
aid  of  their  medicine  songs  which  came  to  them  in  a 
dream  from  the  spirits,  these  "  mystery  men "  are 
powerful  with  the  gods.  In  addition,  every  medicine 
man  has  a  special  "  helper  "  and  adviser,  a  spirit, — 
generally  that  of  some  bird  or  beast, — with  whom  he 
constantly  communes,  and  of  whom  he  is  but  the 
mouthpiece.  To  illustrate,  the  night  preceding  the 
day  set  for  the  ceremonial  feast  at  which  I  was  to 
be  christened  or  blessed  with  a  Chippewa  name,  my 
Indian  godfather,  Ah-zhay-waince,  "  Other-Side," 
had  a  dream  in  which  his  special  spirit-guide  advised 
him  concerning  the  name  that  I  should  bear.  And 


APPENDIX  79 

after  the  feast,  when  Ah-zhay-waince  blessed  me 
with  the  name  Pay-shig-ah-deek,  "  Lone-Caribou,"  the 
old  mystery-man  made  a  talk  in  eulogy  of  his  special 
ma-ni-do  and  declared  that  he  was  acting  merely  as 
the  agent  of  his  "  strong  "  spirit-helper,  the  "  Thunder- 
Bird,"  one  of  the  extremely  powerful  Thunder-Gods 
mentioned  in  the  "  Rain  Song."  Thus  because  of  their 
power  to  secure  the  influence  and  the  advice  of  these 
"  strong  helpers  "  and  the  other  ghosts  of  the  spirit 
world,  the  medicine  men  may  be  called  upon  to  ap 
pease  the  wrath  of  the  spirits  in  times  of  drought; 
or  to  drive  out  of  a  sick  Indian  the  bad  spirits  which 
it  is  believed  possess  him;  to  regulate  the  weather; 
or  to  invoke  the  aid  of  the  gods  whenever  the  tribe 
enters  upon  some  great  task.  The  utter  faith  of  some 
of  the  older  folk  in  the  power  of  the  medicine  man 
is  illustrated  by  the  following  incident: 

One  day  I  journeyed  to  the  wigwam  of  Mis-kwee- 
mee-giz-zi,  "  Blood-Eagle,"  an  old  Chippewa  (some 
times  written  and  pronounced  "  Ojibway  ")  to  induce 
him  to  join  in  a  canoe  trip.  I  found  the  old  fellow 
sitting  in  the  sun  in  front  of  his  cedar  shack,  morose 
and  stolid,  with  a  high  fever  and  other  significant 
symptoms.  In  reply  to  a  question  concerning  the 
nature  of  the  trouble,  old  "Eagle"  grunted,  "I 
got-um  'sumbtion  "  (consumption). 

"  Then  why  don't  you  see  the  doctor  at  the  settle 
ment?" 

"  I  go  w'ite  man  doctor  ten  sleep  ago,"  he  replied ; 
"  no  damn  good !  I  give-um  wan  dolla',  he  give-urn 
wan  glass  bottle, — no-good  med'cine!  Tomorrow  I 


8o  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

go  Eenzhun  med'cine  man.    He  sing  'way  Bad  Spirits 
in  lung.    In  t'ree  sleep — me — I  go  hunt  wit'  you." 

Needless  to  say  Mis-kwee-mee-giz-zi  didn't  turn  up 
for  the  trip  in  "  t'ree  sleep."  The  old  man  will  never 
hunt  again,  except  in  the  Big  Hunting  Ground. 

CHIPPEWA  MONOLOGUES 

THE  WINDS  OF  FIFTY  WINTERS 

The  council  is  a  meeting  at  which  important  tribal 
matters  are  discussed,  a  sort  of  informal  Indian  legis 
lative  assembly.  In  the  old  war  days  councils  were 
frequently  called  between  tribes  to  settle  differences, 
or  between  Indians  and  white  men  for  the  making 
of  treaties,  or  among  the  Indians  of  one  tribe  to  de 
cide  tribal  and  local  questions.  In  these  modern  days 
the  meetings  are  generally  held  for  the  settlement  of 
problems  arising  between  the  Indians  and  the  Federal 
government  of  which  the  Indians  are  legal  wards.  If 
the  United  States  Government,  through  its  Indian 
Service  in  the  Department  of  Interior,  wishes  to  in 
vestigate  tribal  conditions  or  Indian  grievances,  or 
desires  to  determine  tribal  questions  and  policies,  a 
council  is  called.  At  this  meeting  appear  representa 
tives  of  the  government  and  spokesmen  for  the  In 
dians, — generally  chiefs  and  headmen, — who  state  their 
cases  in  "  council  talks." 

The  Indian  audiences  at  these  councils  are  very 
quiet,  attentive,  and  respectful, — more  courteous  than 
the  average  audience  of  white  men.  They  are  un- 


APPENDIX  81 

demonstrative  except  for  an  occasional  grunt  of  ap 
proval, — represented  in  the  poems  in  this  group  by 
the  exclamations  of  "Ho!  Ho!"  and  "How!"  in 
italics  and  parentheses, — or  an  occasional  gruff  and 
guttural  "  Ugh ! "  or  grunt  of  disapproval  or  disgust. 
"  The  Winds  of  Fifty  Winters  "  is  a  poetic  version 
of  a  famous  Chippewa  council  which  is  recalled  by 
the  older  folk  among  the  Chippewas  with  many 
chuckles. 


CHIEF  BEAR'S-HEART  "  MAKES  TALK  " 
LITTLE-CARIBOU  MAKES  "  BIG  TALK  " 

The  remaining  poems  in  this  group  are  poetic  coun 
cil  talk  interpretations  suggested  by  speeches  made 
at  councils  held  by  the  government  and  Chip 
pewa  Indians  for  the  discussion  of  certain  alleged 
violations  of  the  "  Treaty  of  1889,"  "The  Treaty  of 
1854 "  and  other  treaties.  Many  of  the  grievances 
expressed  in  these  monologues  obviously  represent 
but  one  point  of  view,  the  Indian's  version  of  the 
dispute.  Nevertheless,  although  many  of  his  com 
plaints  and  hardships  are  due  to  misunderstanding, 
to  government  red  tape,  or  to  the  Indian's  own  weak 
nesses  and  defects,  and  are  therefore  often  unreason 
able  and  prejudiced,  there  is  generally  in  his  cause 
a  proper  share  of  truth  and  adequate  grounds  for 
complaint. 

In  order  to  give  to  the  original  Indian  utterance 
clearness,  coherence,  and  completeness,  any  Anglicized 


82  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

version  of  a  council  talk  must  contain  some  of  the 
graces  of  the  white  man's  language,  and  some  of  its 
nuances  of  diction  and  idiom.  Although  such  inter 
pretations  may  gain  in  clarity,  they  necessarily  lose 
much  of  the  original  Indian  flavor,  certain  crude, 
rugged  poetic  qualities  of  the  original  expression  in 
the  Chippewa  language,  with  its  small  but  exceed 
ingly  suggestive  vocabulary  limited  to  strong  nouns, 
strong  verbs,  and  compact,  colorful  phrases,  idioms, 
and  figures.  In  order,  therefore,  to  catch  these  more 
primitive  poetic  qualities,  even  though  it  be  at  the 
loss  of  other  virtues,  the  two  poems,  "  Chief  Bear's- 
Heart  '  Makes  Talk/"  and  "Little-Caribou  Makes 
*  Big  Talk/ "  are  written  in  the  dialect  spoken  by 
some  of  the  reservation  Indians  of  the  North, — on  the 
theory  that  this  broken,  labored,  colorful  pigeon- 
English  of  the  remote  Indian  more  accurately  regis 
ters  certain  elements  of  the  strange  charm  and  the 
rugged  power  of  Chippewa  oratory. 

The  phrases  "  Boo-zhoo !  "  "  Boo-zhoo,  boo-zhoo !  " 
and  "  Boo-zhoo  nee-chee ! "  are  forms  of  the  friendly 
salutation  that  is  common  among  the  Chippewas. 
They  are  apparently  corruptions  of  the  French  "  Bon- 
jour!"  of  the  Canadian-French  voyageurs  and  cour- 
eurs-des-bois,  many  of  whom  have  mingled  with  the 
Chippewas  and  have  married  into  the  tribe. 

In  the  days  of  the  old  frontier  the  Indian  was 
greatly  impressed  by  the  uniforms  and  the  sabers  of 
the  cavalry  officers.  Therefore  he  spoke  of  soldiers 
as  "  Long-Blades,"  or  "  Long-Knives  " ;  and  he  fre 
quently  used  these  terms  to  designate  all  white  men. 


Thus  the  expression  "  Long-Blades  "  in  these  poems 
means  soldiers  and  white  men. 


LITTLE-CARIBOU  MAKES  "  BIG  TALK  " 

The  American  Indian  is  usually  very  deferential 
and  courteous  to  the  aged,  not  only  at  councils  but 
at  all  ceremonies.  In  this  poem,  therefore,  the  in 
terruptions  by  the  young  Indians,  the  "  asides,"  and 
the  sallies  (represented  in  the  poem  by  the  indented 
stanzas  in  italics  and  parentheses)  and  the  ensuing 
amusing  colloquy  between  the  shrewd  patriarch,  Little- 
Caribou,  and  his  young  hecklers,  are  rather  unusual. 

It  is  commonly  believed  that  the  Indian  lacks  hu 
mor  ;  that  he  never  laughs  or  jokes ;  that  he  is  always 
the  taciturn,  sullen,  stern  type  of  the  theatrical  Indian. 
The  idea  is  erroneous.  Although  in  formal  meetings 
and  in  his  dealings  with  the  white  man  the  Indian 
is  generally  a  man  of  a  few  simple,  dignified,  stern 
words,  among  his  own  people  he  laughs  often  and 
loud.  Moreover,  the  women  and  children  seem  to 
be  forever  laughing  and  joking  and  giggling  over 
nothing.  Among  the  Indians,  especially  among  the 
older  folk,  there  are  many  droll  characters  that  have 
a  subtle  sense  of  humor  in  addition  to  the  dignity, 
the  shrewdness,  and  the  vigor  which  most  of  the  better 
types  of  Indian  possess.  The  poem,  "  Little-Caribou 
Makes  '  Big  Talk/  "  illustrates  this  little-known  side 
of  Indian  character  and  this  not  uncommon  Indian 
type. 


84  MANY  MANY  MOONS 

WHIRLING-RAPIDS  TALKS 

The  allegory,  "Whirling-Rapids  Talks,"  illustrates 
the  tendency  of  the  Indian  to  symbolize  all  the  ex 
periences  of  life.  This  personification  of  nature,  of 
every  bird  that  soars  and  every  beast  that  walks  or 
crawls,  and  this  symbolizing  of  life  by  moon  and 
sun,  by  water,  thunder,  and  lightning,  and  by  the 
star-people  of  the  sky, — these  are  of  the  essence  of 
his  poetic  thought.  Because  of  his  conception  of  the 
walking,  the  swimming,  and  the  green-growing  things 
of  the  wilderness,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  race  has 
ever  established  a  contact  with  nature  more  spiritual 
or  more  vital  than  has  the  American  Indian. 


THE  END 


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